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DONATION   BY 


DR.  AND  MRS.  ELMER    BELT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


DR.  AND  MRS.  ELMER  BELT 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


ALFRED    TENNYSON 


J^ou0c!)olti  (BDition 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND    COMPANY 


'd'he  Rizierside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Printed  by  K.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


COJXTENTS. 


Pagb 

I'o  THE  Queen 5 

Claribel 5 

Lilian 5 

Isabel 6 

Mariana 6 

To S 

Madeline g 

Song.  —  The  Owl „ 

Second  Song.  —  To  the  Same         ...                g 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights „ 

Ode  to  Memory ,, 

Song          .        .                ....                ,3 

Adeline ,^ 

A  Char.\cter i^ 

The  Poet ,^ 

The  Poet's  Mind ...  15 

The  Sea-Fairies 15 

The  Deserted  House i(i 

The  Dying  Swan x- 

A  Dirge 17 

Love  and  Death 18 

The  Ballad  of  Oriana 18 

Circumstance     .        .        .^ 19 

The  Merman 19 

The  Mermaid 20 

Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K 20 

The  Lady  of  Sh.\lott 21 

Mariana  in  the  South        .                 21 

Eleanore 24 

The  Miller's  Daughter 26 

Fatima 2S 

CEnone 29 

The  Sisters . °  32 

To  33 

The  Palace  of  Art 33 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 37 

The  May  Queen 38 

New  Ye.\r's  Eve 40 

Conclusion 41 

The  Lotos-Eaters 42 

Choric  Song 43 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 45 

M.\rgaret 5c 

The  Blackbird 51 


IV  CONTENTS. 


The  Death  of  the  Old  Year 
To  J.  S 


"You   ASK    ME,    WHY,    THO'    ILL    AT   EASE' 


53 


'Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights"         ......... 

54 


........  53 

Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 


The  Goose ......  je 

English  Idyls  and  other  Poems  :^ 

The  Epic «       .      56 

Morte  d'Arthur r& 

The  Gardener's  Daughter  ;  or,  The  Pictures  .         ......      62 

Dora 66 

AuDLEv  Court     ........      68 

Walking  to  the  Mail jq 

Edwin  Morris  ;  or.  The  Lake ^2 

St.  Simeon  Stvlites 7^ 

The  Talking  Oak "77 

Love  and  Duty gi 

The  Golden  Year 82 

Ulysses 83 

Locksley  Hall 85 

Godiva 91 

The  Two  Voices 92 

The  Day-Dream  :  — 

Prologue  . qg 

The  Sleeping  Palace •        •        •        •        .      go 

The  Sleeping  Beauty gg 

The  Arrival -00 

*     The  Revival 

The  Departure  ...        

Moral 

L'Envoi 

Epilogue 

Amphion 

St.  Agnes'  Eve 

Sir  Galahad 

Edward  Gray  

Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue 

To  ,  after  re.\ding  a  Life  and  Letters 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece 

Lady  Clare     

The  Lord  of  Burleigh 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere »        . 

A  Farewell        

The  Beggar  Maid 

The  Vision  of  Sin 

"  Come  not  when  I  am  dead  " 

The  Eagle 

"  Move  eastward,  h.\ppv  earth,  and  leave  " 

"  Break,  break,  break  " 

The  Poet's  Song . 

"My  life  is  full  of  weary  days" 

The  Captain  ;  a  Legend  of  the  N.-wy 

Three  Sonnets  to  a  Coquette 

Song 

Song . 

On  a  Mourner 

■Northern  Farmer.     New  Style .... 


CONTENTS.  V 

The  Victim -        .       •  12a 

Wages ,        .        ,  123 

The  Higher  Pantheism ,23 

■'  j^lower  in  the  crannied  wall" 124 

^lucret.'us 124 

Idylls  of  the  King:  — 

Deuication ,        .  128 

The  Coming  of  Arthur 129 

Geraint  and  Enid          . 135 

Merlin  and  Vivien    .         .                 162 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 175 

The  Holy  Grail 199 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre 211 

Guinevere ...  220 

The  Passing  of  Arthur .        .  231 

The  Princess:  a  Medley 238 

In  Memoriam 288 

Maud,  and  other  Poems:  — 

Maud 323 

The  Brook  ;  an  Idyl 343 

The  Letters 348 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington 348 

The  Daisy 352 

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 353 

W'LL 353 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 354 

Enoch  Arden,  and  other  Poems:  — 

Enoch  Arden 355 

Ayl.mer's  Field 370 

Sea  Dreams 382 

The  Grandmother 387 

Northern  Farmer.     Old  Style 390 

TiTHONUS    ....                   391 

The  Voyage         .                392 


In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 


393 


The  Flower 394 

ReQUIESCAT 394 

The  Sailor-Boy 394 

The  Islet 394 

Literary  Squabbles 395 

The  Ringlet 395 

A  Welco.me  to  Alexandra 396 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  International  Exhibition         .        .        .  396 

A  Dedication 397 

Experiments  :  — 

Boadicea 397 

In  Quantity 398 

Specimen  of  a  Translation  of  the  Iliad  in  Blank  Verse       ....  399 

Additional  Poems : — 

Tl.MBUCTOO      .         .         .         .  , 400 

Elegiacs 403 

The  "  How  "  and  the  "  Why  " 403 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a  second-rate  Sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  with  itself  404 

The  Burial  of  Love 406 

To 406 

Song 406 

Song 407 


4IO 


n  CONTENTS. 

Pong 

•  409 

Nothing  will  die       ...... 

....    407 

All  Things  will  die      .        .         , .^g 

Hero  to  Leander      .        .         -        , j.08 

The  Mystic     •■......,,. 

The  Grasshopper 

Love,  Pride,  and  Forgetfulness '    .,(, 

Chorus  in  an  Unpublished  Drama,  written  very  early 

Lost  Hope 

••■•.....  .        .        410 

The  Tears  of  Heaven 

•■••••■•    410 

Love  and  Sorrow  ..... 

To  A  Lady  Sleeping         . 

Sonnet       .... 

c.  4" 

Sonnet  

Sonnet       ...  

Sonnet  

Love 

The  Kraken 

English  War-Song 

National  Song  

Dualisms 

We  are  Free 

••••..        •        .        •        .        .    414 

The  Sea  Fairies     ...... 

(jl  OiOVTiS      .... 

c  4ii 

Sonnet      .... 

To  —    .   .   .   ...'...'.'.■.■.•.•.'.  j;; 

Bonaparte .jg 

Sonnets .jg 

The  Hesperides .jg 

Rosalind ,ig 

Song .418 

Kate ....  419 

Sonnet  written  on  hearing  of  the  Outbreak  of  the  Polish  Insurrection  419 

Sonnet  on  the  Result  of  the  late  Russian  Invasion  of  Poland     .        .        .  419 

Sonnet 419 

O  Darling  Room 420 

To  Christopher  North 420 

No  MORE 420 

Anacreontics 420 

A  Fragment 420 

Sonnet .  421 

Sonnet 421 

The  Skipping-Rope 421 

The  new  Timon  and  the  Poets 421 

Stanzas 42: 

Sonnet  to  William  Charles  Macready 42i 

Britons,  guard  your  own 422 

The  Third  of  February,   1852 423 

Hands  all  round .......  424 

The  War 425 

On  a  Spiteful  Letter 425 

1865-1866 425 

The  Window,  or  the  Songs  of  the  Wrens   .       .       c .42^ 

The  Last  Tournament 429 

Gareth  and  Lynette 440 

Epilogue  to  Idyls  of  the  King 464 

(y  Welcome  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Edinburgh              466 


rONTENTS. 


Vll 


Miscellaneous. 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston        ....         .        .       ,        •        .        .        .  407 

The  Voice  and  the  Peak ■567 

Queen  Mary .  |6S 

Harold ,  535 

The  Revenge •        •        .  ■  573 

The  Defence  of  Lucknow. 

Dedicatory  Poe.m  to  Princess  Alice         ....,>  ,        -  576 

The  Lover's  Tale •  571 

The  Golden  Supper o.:.  593 

De  Profundis  :  — 

Two  Greetings ,.....,  6o> 

The  Human  Crv ,        ,         .        -        .  boi 

Iiallads  and  Other  Poems:  — 

Dedication  to  Alfred  Tennyson,  my  Grandson        .......  603 

The  First  Quarrei 603 

Rizpah 605 

The  Northern  Cobbler .  607 

The  Sisters  6og 

The  Village  Wife;  or,  The  Entail 614 

In  the  Children's  Hospital 616 

Sir  John  Oldcasti.e,  Lord  Cobham 618 

Columbus 621 

The  Voyage  of  Maeldune 625 

Sonnets : — 

Prefatory  Sonnet  to  the  "  Nineteenth  Century  " 627 

To  the  Rev.  _W'.  H.  Brookfield 628 

Montenegro 628 

To  Victor  Hugo 628 

Translations,  Etc.  :  — 

Battle  of  Brunanburh 62.J 

Achilles  over  the  Trench 630 

To  the  Princess  Frederica  of  Hanover  on  hbr  Marriage 631 

Sir  John  Franklin 631 

To  Dante 631 

The  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade  at  Balaclava       ......  631 

Hands  all  Round 633 

To  Virgil .  633 

Early  Sonnets: — 

Alexander =        .  634 

If  I  were  Loved    .............o  634 

The  Bridesmaid 634 

Ckild-Songs  :  — 

The  City  Child 634 

Minnie  and  Winnie 63s 

Miscellaneous;  — 

England  and  America  in  1782 .  635 

On  Translations  of  Homer o         .  635 

"  Frater  Ave  atque  Vale  " •  (^iS 

Despair 636 

Early  Spring «        •         .        .  638 

The  Cup       ..............        =        '•  639 

The  Falcon «  6S7 

TlRESIAS  AND  OtHER  PoEMS  :  — 

To  E.  Fitzgerald .  669 

TlRESIAS ,,,....  66g 


VlU  CONTENTS. 

"  One  height  and  one  far-shining  fire  "' ,  67^ 

The  Wreck , 6,^ 

The  Ancient  Sage ^        .        .        ,        .         .        .  671; 

The  Flight ,                 ...  670 

To-MoRROw 682 

The  Spinster's  Sweet-Arts ...»,.  6S4 

Balin  and  Balan ,  6S7 

Prologue  to  General  Hamley „  696 

Epilogue „.  697 

The  Dead  Prophf.t 697 

Prefatory  Poem  to  mv  Brother's  Sonnets 699 

Helen's  Tower 699 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Stratford  de  Redcliffe 70c 

Epitaph  on  General  Gordon 700 

Epitaph  on  Caxton 700 

To  the  Duke  of  Argvli 700 

Freedom ,  700 

To  H.  R.  H.  Princess  Beatrice 701 

Sonnet:  "  Old  Poets  foster'd  under  friendlier  skies"       .        .        •        »        .  701 

Vastness .       .        ,        .  702 

On  Cambridge  University 703 

Sonnet .        «        .        .  70,^ 

Lines 704 

Additional  Verses 704 

Ode  written    for   the   Opening   of    the    Colonial    and    Indian    Exhibition  704 

Becket 705 

LocKSLEY  Hall  Sixty  Years  Afte::        ....,•.•••'  755 

The  Fleet 761 

The  Promise  of  May , 762 

Demeter    and  other  Poems        ,..»o..  785 

To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava 785 

On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria 785 

To  Professor  Jebb 786 

Demeter  and  Persephone 787 

OWD  RoA =        .  789 

The  Ring 792 

Forlorn ■. Soo 

Happy        ...                 801 

To  Ulysses 804 

To  Mary  Boyle 805 

The  Progress  of  Spring Sof. 

Merlin  and  the  Gleam .        .  80S 

Romney's  Remorse 809 

Parnassus 8iz 

By  an  Evolutionist 812 

Far — FAR — away 813 

Politics 813 

Beautiful  City Ssj 

The  Roses  on  the  Terrace 813 

The  Play 813 

On  One  who  affected  an  Effeminate  Manner 813 

To  One  who  ran  down  the  English 813 

The  Snowdrop 814 

The  Throstle 814 

The  Oak 814 

In  Memoriam — Wili^iam  George  Ward 8i.) 

Crossin"^  the  Bar      . 8i4 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS, 


PASE 

Portrait  of  Teuuyson ,        .  Frontispiece 

'  Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  " 7 

•'By  Bagdat'^ shrines <jf  fretted  gold  " S 

"  Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne  " ,         ...  10 

"  Life  and  Tliougl'*'  liave  gone  away  " „        ,  16 

"  '  Tlic  wise  is  come  upon  me,'  cried  The  Lady  of  Shalott  ".....  .23 

"  Tlie  daugliter  of  a  hundred  Earls  "....,...,.  38 

"  You  must  wake  and  call  me  early  " 39 

"  The  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary  are  at  rest  "     ......  43 

"  O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more  "         ...                ...  46 

•' An  arm  rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake  " 58 

•'  AH  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms  "         .........  61 

"  I  have  been  to  blame,  —  to  blame  " ,        .  69 

''O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  tlie  lake " ,        .  72 

"  She  kiss'd  me  once  again  " 79 

"  Tliere  lies  tlie  port ;  the  vessel  [lulfs  her  sail  " 84 

''  This  is  the  place  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old  " 85 

"  Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships  "  .        .        .        .        .        .87 

■'Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down"    .        . 89 

"  Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin  "........,  9t 

"  Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt  " .        .  93 

"  He  stoops  —  to  kiss  her  —  on  his  knee  "           ..........  tOC 

"  My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap  "                ..........  101 

"  My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  '     ..........  104 

'All-arui'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betids" 106 

•  Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe  '' .  110 

"  In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down  "..........  114 

"  Break,  break,  break "        ...         . .  117 

Enid 136 

"  The  long  street  of  a  little  town  ".;..........  139 

•'  In  a  moment  thought  Geraint"'    ............  141 

■'  And  fell'd  him,  and  set  foot  on  his  breast  "........»        =  144 

'  The  giant  tower  from  whose  high  crest "      .         .         . 148 

*  So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  coimted  dead  "... 159 


X  LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS, 

"  The  vast  aud  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard "                   o        .        c  16* 

'■■Drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes  speak  for  her" t        ,        ,  17u 

"  Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and  stood  ".•.,,,.  174 

"  Then  caine  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-vvriukled  man  "           ..o.o,,^  178 

"  Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  Ills  lineaments  "   ......,,,         ,  igO 

"  Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd,  and  took  tlie  shield  "     .         ......        ,  183 

■'  And  down  lie  sank  for  the  pure  pam  "          .        c        ..,,,.        „  185 

"  She  knelt  full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  liis  bed  " t        .        .  190 

"  Tlien  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke  "        •..,.,....  191 

"  The  dead,  steer'd  by  tlie  dumb,  went  upward  with  the  flood  "       .                 ....  195 

Guinevere          ..•.•....,,,|,.  220 

By  the  Cornish  sea  " 224 

"  The  sands  of  dark  Tiutagil  by  the  Cornish  sea  " .  225 

"And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door  " 229 

'  The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls  " >        .  25G 

'•  Tliiriking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more  " .  258 

"  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee  " 274 

"  Come  dowj>,  O  m.ajd,  from  yonder  mountain  heights  " .  283 

"  Fair  ship  thai  from  the  Italian  shore  "         .....,..,.  291 

"T  found  a  wood  witli  tho-ny  boughs" 304 

"  Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky "          ,        .        .                .        .        ,        r       .        .  31C 

"  There  rolls  the  deep "        ,         .......        o 319 

"  I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  beiiind  the  little  wood  " 324 

"  She  came  to  the  village  church  " 330 

"  Come  into  the  garden,  Maud  " .337 

"  I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  " 345 

I  make  the  netted  simbeam  dance  " 347 

"  O  the  wild  charge  they  made  " 354 

"  And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  " 358 

'  Pliilip  put  tlie  boy  and  girl  to  school  ".........,.  3G1 

"  The  lazy  gossips  of  the  port " 364 

''Fast  flowed  the  current  of  her  easy  tears "      .........         ■  369 

Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know  " 365 

VylmerHall 371 

The  Grandmother 388 

"  Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  royal  mount  " c        .  443 

"  On  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth  rode  "..                 ........  451 

*  Sound  sleep  be  thine  !  sound  cause  to  sleep  hast  thou  "         ^        .        .        .        .        ^        .  461 

"  Hast  thou  no  voice,  O  Peak  ? "      .        . .  467 

Victor  Hugo          .        .  "     . 628 

Dante ...........  631 


POEMS. 


(published  1830.) 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

Revered,  beloved  —  0  you  that  liold 

A  nobler  office  upon  earth 

Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain,  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,  —  since  j^our  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 

Of  him  that  utter'd  nothing  base  ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 

If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there ; 

Then  —  while  a  sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro'  wild  March  the  throstle  calls, 
Where  all  about  your  palace-walls 

The  sun-lit  almond-blossoms  shakes  — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song ; 
For  tho'  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I  could  trust 

Your  kindness.     May  you  rule  us  long. 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 

As  noble  till  the  latest  day ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 
"She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good; 

"Her  court  was  pure ;  her  life  serene ; 

God  gave  her  peace ;  her  land  reposed ; 

A  thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen  ; 

''And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 

The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet. 

"By  shaping  some  august  decree. 
Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still 
Broad-based  upon  her  people's  will, 

And  compass'd  by  the  inviolate  sea." 

March,  1851. 


CLARIBEL 

A    MELODY. 
1. 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die, 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sigheth, 
Tliick-leaved,  ambrosial, 
With  an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony. 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 

Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 
At  noon  the  wild  t)cc-  hummeth 

About  the  moss'd  lieadstonci : 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh. 

And  looketh  down  aione. 
Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelletli. 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth, 

The  callow  throstle  lispeth. 
The  slumbrous  wave  outwelleth, 

The  babbling  runnel  crispeth. 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


LILIAN. 


Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 
When  I  ask  her  if  she  love  me. 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me. 

Laughing  all  she  can  ; 
She  '11  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 

Cruel  little  Lilian, 


When  my  passion  seeks 

Pleasance  in  love-sighs, 

She,  looking  thro'  and  thro'  me 

Thutoughly  to  lando  me. 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 


MARIANA. 


So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 
Fioni  beneatli  lier  gatlier'd  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 
Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 

The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 

Then  away  she  flies. 


Prythee  weep,  ]\Iay  Lilian  ! 
Gayety  withoiit  eclipse 

Wearieth  me.  May  Lilian  : 
Thro'  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 

When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth  : 

Prythee  weep,  ilay  Lilian. 


Praying  all  I  can. 
If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee. 

Airy  Lilian, 
Like  a  rose-leaf  I  will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian- 


ISABEL. 


Eyes  not  down-dropt  nor  over  brigat, 
but  fed 
With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chas- 
tity, 
Clear,  withoutheat,  undying,  tended  by 
Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translu- 
cent fane 
Ofher  still  spirit ;  locks  not  wide-dispread, 
Madonna -wise   on   either  side  hei- 

head  ; 
Sweet  li^Ti?  whereon  perpetually  did 
reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity, 
VV^ere  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood, 

Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head. 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude, 
Of  perfect  wifehood  and  pure  lowli- 
head. 


The  intuitive  decision  of  a  bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from    crime  ;    a  prudence  to 

withhold  ; 
The  laws  of  marriage  character'd  in 
gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 
A  love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 


To  read  those  laws  ;  an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a  most  silver  flow 

Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho'  un- 
descried, 

Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gen 
tleness 
Thro'  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride  • 
A  courage  to  endure  and  to  obey  ; 
A  hate  of  gossip  parlance,  and  of  sway, 
Crown'd  Isabel,  thro'  all  her  placid  life^ 
The  queen  of  marriage,  a  most  perfect  wife. 

III. 
The  mellow'd  reflex  of  a  winter  moon  ; 
A  clear  stream  flowing  with  a  muddy  one, 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 
With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer 
light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward 
brother  : 
A  leaning  and  upbearing  parasite, 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had 
fallen  quite, 
With  cluster'd  flower-bells  and  ambro- 
sial orbs 
Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each 

other  — 
Shadow  forth  thee  :  —  the  world  hath 
not  another 
(Tho'  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of 

thee, 
4nd  thou  of  G  od  in  thy  great  charity) 
Of  such  a  finish'd  chasten'd  jmrity. 


MARIANA. 


'  Mariana  in  the  i 


oated  grange." 

Measure  for  Measuyt, 


With  blackest  moss  the  flower-jdots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  galjle-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange : 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch  ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  ' '  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried  | 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 


MARIANA. 


'  Her  tears  fell  with  tlie  dews  at  even  ; 
Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried." 


After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 
When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  Hats. 
She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  ! " 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow : 

The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light  : 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 

Came  to  her  :  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed 
morn 

Ahoiit  the  lonely  moated  grange. 


She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary. 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  a\\-eary5 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 


About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept 
And  o'er  it  manj%  round  and  small, 
The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  po{)lar  shook  alway. 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  1>aik  ; 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  niarlc 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 
She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary,. 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  1  " 


MADELINE. 


And  ever  when  tlie  moon  was  low, 

And  the  slirill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  tlie  moon  was  verj'  low. 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their 

cell. 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Opon  her  bed,  across  her  lu'ow. 

She  only  said,  '.'  The  night  is  dreary, 

He  Cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  1  were  dead  !  " 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  crcak'd  ; 
The  blue  ily  sung  in  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 
Behind     the     mouldering     wainscot 
shriek'd. 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  thro'  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors. 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 
She  only  said,  ' '  JVIy  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 

Her  sense  ;  but  most  .she  loathed  the  hour 

When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 

Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 

Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then,  said  she,  "I  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said  ; 
She  wept,  ' '  I  am  aweaiy,  aweary, 
0  God,  tliat  I  were  dead  !  " 


TO 


Clear-headed    friend,    whose    joyful 
scorn, 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atwain 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds. 
The  wounding  cords  that   bind   and 
strain 
The  heart  until  i±,  bleeds, 
Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  morn 

Roof  not  a  glance  so  keen  as  thine  : 
If  aught  of  ])roiihecy  be  mine, 
Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 


II. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 

Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow  : 

Fair-fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 
Nor  martyr-flames,  nor  trenchant  swords 

Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie  ; 

A  gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die. 
Shot  thro'  and  thro'  with  cunning  words, 


Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch, 
Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost  need 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed. 
Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 

And  wear}'  with  a  finger's  touch 

Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightningspeed ; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old, 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light, 

Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong  night. 

And  heaven's  mazed  .signs  stood  still 

In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 


Tiiou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors, 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine. 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thro'  light  and  shadow  thou  dost  range, 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers. 
And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 


Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
rhou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 
Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  :  but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter  ? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter. 

Who  may  know  ? 
Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine. 
Like  little  clouds  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 
Thy  smile  anil  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another. 
Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother  ; 
Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 
All  the  mystery  is  thine  ; 
Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 
Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 


"  By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold."    See  page  q. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THE  ARABIAN   NIGHTS. 


A.  snbtle,  sudden  flame, 
By  veering  passion  fann'd, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances  ; 
AVlien  I  would  kiss  thy  hand, 
The  flusli  of  anger'd  shame 

O'ei'flows  thy  calmer  glances, 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown  : 
But  when  I  turn  away, 
Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

AVooest  not,  nor  vainly  wranglest ; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while. 
All  my  bounding  heart  entauglest 

In  a  golden-netted  smile  ; 
Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss, 
If  my  liiis  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously. 
Again  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 
And  o'er  black  brows  drops  down 
A  sudden-curved  frown. 


SONG. 


THE  OWL. 
I. 


When  cats  run  home  and  liglit  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground. 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb. 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  rountl  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay. 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits. 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 


TO  THE  SAME. 


Thy  tuwhits  are  lull'd,  I  wot. 
Thy  tuvvhoos  of  yesternight, 
Which  upon  the  dark  afloat. 
So  took  echo  with  delight, 
So  took  echo  Avith  delight. 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a  fainter  tone. 


I  would  mock  thy  chant  anew  ; 

But  I  cannot  mimic  it ; 
Not  a  whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 
Tliee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwliit. 
Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwliit. 

With  a  lengthen'd  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwliit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o, 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF   THE 
ARABIAN    NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  bJGi?? 

free 
In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy, 
The  tide  of  time  flow'd  back  with  me, 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time  ; 
And  many  a  sheeny  summer-morn, 
Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne. 
By  Bagdat's  shrines  of  fretted  gold. 
High-walled  gardens  green  and  old  • 
True  Jlussulnian  was  I  and  sworn, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  jirime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro' 
The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 
By  garden  porches  on  the  brim. 
The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide. 
Gold  glittering  thro'  lamplight  dim, 
And  broider'd  sofas  on  each  .side  ; 
In  sooth  it  was  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Often,  where  clear-stemm'd  platans  guard 
The  outlet,  did  I  turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a  broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  di?ep  inlay 
Qf  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crep. 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A  motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro'  the  star-strown  calm. 
Until  another  night  in  night 
I  enter'd,  from  the  clearer  light. 


10 


EECOLLECTIONS    OF   THE   ARABIAN   NIGHTS. 


■  Adown  the  Tigris  I  was  borne, 
By  Bagdat'."  shrines  of  fretted  gold." 


Imbower'd  vaults  of  i:)illar'd  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which,  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,   were  stay'd  beneatli   the 
dome 
Of  hollow  boughs.  —  A  goodly  time, 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward  ;  and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a  lake. 
From  the  green  rivage  many  a  fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical. 
Thro'  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain's  flow 
Fall'n  silver-chiming,  seem'd  to  shake 
The  s])arkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 
A  goodly  place,  a  goodly  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  ]irime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro'  many  a  bowery  turn 
A  walk  with  vary-color'd  shells 
Wander'd  engrain'd.     On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  frngrant  maige 


From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  um 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 
Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  \nde 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  ofl",  and  where  the  lemon  grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung, 
The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung  ; 
Not  he  :  but  something  which  possess'ci 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight, 
Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love, 
Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress'd. 

Apart  from  place,  withholding  time; 

But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber'd  :  the  solemn  palms  were  range(J 
Above,  vinwoo'd  of  summer  wind  : 
A  sudden  splendor  from  behind 


ODE    TO    MEM  OK  Y. 


11 


Flnsh'd  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gcld-green. 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 
Their  interspaces,  connterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.     A  lovely  time. 
For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  s]ihere  overhead. 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 
Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame  : 
So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat. 
With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 
In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  1  sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank. 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  tinu^ 
So  worthy  of  the  golden  ]irime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro'  the  garden  I  was  drawn  — 
A  realm  of  pleasance,  many  a  mound, 
And  many  a  shadow-checiuer'd  lawn 
Full  of  the  city's  stilly  sound, 
And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks, 
Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn, 
Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obeli.sks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time, 
In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley's  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I  came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 
Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors, 
Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors, 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade. 
After  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 
A  million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look'd  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream'd 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem'd 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 

Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous 
time 

To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


Then  stole  I  up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone, 
Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a  brow  of  pearl 
Tressed  with  redolent  ebony. 
In  many  a  dark  delicious  curl, 
Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  ; 
The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time, 
Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side. 
Pure  silver,  underpro})t  a  rich 
Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  whirh 
Down-droop'd,  in  many  a  floating  fold, 
Engarhiiuled  and  diaper'd 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a  cloth  of  gold 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr'd 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride, 
Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 
I  saw  him  —  in  his  golden  prime. 
The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid  1 


ODE  TO   MEMORY. 


Thou  who  stealest  fire. 
From  the  fountains  of  the  past, 
To  glorify  the  present  ;  0,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire  ! 
Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 
I  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  d(nvy  dawn  of  memoiy. 


Come  not  as  thou  camcst  of  late. 
Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day  ;  luit  robed  in  soften'd 
light 
Of  orient  state. 
Whilome  thou  camest  with  the  morning 
mist. 
Even  as  a  maid,  wdiose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  of  dawn  have 
kiss'd, 
When  she,  as  thou. 
Stays   on   her  floating  locks  the  lovely 

freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of 

fruits. 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 


12 


ODE   TO   MEMORY. 


Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning 

mist, 
And  with  the  evening  clond, 
Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my 

open  breast 
(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest 

wind 
Never  grow  sere, 
When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind, 
.     Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the 

year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 
In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken 

rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  liand  thine  infant 

Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from 

thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence  ;  and  the 

cope 
Of  the  half-attain'd  futurity, 
Tho'  deep  not  fathomless, 
Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which 

tremble 
O'er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life's  distress  ; 
For  sure  she  deem'd  no  mist  of  earth  could 

dull 
Those  spirit-thrilling  eyes  so  keen  and 

beautiful  : 
Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven's  spheres, 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


Come  forth,  I  charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad 

eyes  ' 
Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting 
vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 
Divinest  Memory  ! 
Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A  pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  pui-ple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 
Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray 

hill-side,  - 
The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father's  door. 
And  chiefly  fi'om  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o'er  niatted  cress  and  ribbed  sand. 


Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves, 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  urn, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn, 
The  filter' d  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland, 

0,  hither  lead  thy  feet ! 
Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled 
folds. 

Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 
When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken'd 

loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn, 
What  time  the  amber  morn 
Forth  gushes  from  beneath  a  low-hung 
cloud. 


Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present  . 
When  first  she  is  wed  ; 

And  like  a  bride  of  old 
Li  triumph  led. 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers. 
Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 
In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought 
gold; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first 

essay, 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls  ; 
For  the  discovery 
And  newness  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee, 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  faireet 

Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  beai-est 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.    Artist-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  early  days  ; 
No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be  ; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless 

Pike, 
Or  even  a  sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea. 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh. 
Or  eren  a  lowly  cottage  whence  we  see 
Stretch'd  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enor- 
mous marsh, 
Where  from  the  frequent  bridge. 
Like  emblems  of  infinity, 
The  trenched  waters  run  fi'om  sky  to 

sky; 
Or  a  garden  bower'd  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose. 


ADELINE. 


13 


Long   alleys   falling  down    to   twilight 

grots, 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender  : 
Whither  in  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms, 
From  weary  wind, 
With  youthful  fancy  reinspired. 
We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind. 
And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 
My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone, 
Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A  crown,  a  sceptre,  and  a  throne  ! 

0  strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

1  faint  in  this  obscurity. 
Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 


SONG. 


A  SPIRIT  haunts  the  year's  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  th  'se  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and 
sigh 
In  the  walks  ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy 
stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly  ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush'd,  and  close. 
As  a  sick  man's  room  when  he  taketh 
repose 
An  hour  before  death  ; 
My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul 

grieves 
At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting 
leaves, 
And  the  bi-eath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath. 
And  the  year's  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i'  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


ADELINE. 


Mystery  of  mysteries, 
Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 
Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 
Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest, 
But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast 
Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 


Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 

Like  a,lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro'  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a  rose-bush  leans  upon, 
Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 

As  a  Naiail  in  a  well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day. 
Or  a  phantom  two  hours  old 

Of  a  maiden  past  away. 
Ere  the  jdaeid  lips  be  cold  ? 
Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 

S[)iritual  Adeline  ? 


What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine  ? 
Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 
For  sure  thou  art  not  all. alone  : 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measure  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings  ? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  wooes 
To  his  heart  the  .silver  dews  ? 
Or  when  little  airs  arise. 
How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  ? 
Hast  tho\i  look'd  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise  ? 
Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowv,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 


Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a  crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 
What  aileth  thee  ?  whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften' d,  shadow'd  brow, 
And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine. 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 


14 


THE  POET. 


Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies  ? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 

Wander  from  the  side  of  the  morn, 
Dripping  with  Sabsean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn, 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face, 
While  his  locks  a-drooping  twined 
Round  thj^  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a  carcanet  of  rays, 

And  ye  talk  together  still. 
In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  tlie  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  and  smile  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


A  CHARACTER. 

With  a  half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  "The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things." 
Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty  :  that  the  dull 

Saw  no  divinity  in  grass. 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  sjiirit  in  air  ; 

Then  looking  as  'twere  in  a  glass. 

He  smooth'd  his  chin  and  sleek'd  liis  hair. 

And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  :  not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pallas  and  Juno  sitting  by  : 
And  ^\dth  a  sweeping  of  the  arm, 
And  a  lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye, 
Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass'd  human  mysteries, 
And  trod  on  .silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes, 
And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress'd  as  he  were  meek. 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 
Upon  himself  himself  did  feed  : 
Quiet,  disjuissionate,  and  cold, 
And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 
With  chisell'd  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 

The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  bom, 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 
Dower'd  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn 
of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love. 

He  .saw  thro'  life  and  death,  thro'  good 
and  ill, 
He  saw  thro'  his  own  soul. 
Tlie  marvel  of  tlie  everlasting  will, 
An  open  scroll. 

Before  him   lay  :   with  echoing  feet  he 
threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 
The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were 
headed 
And  wing'd  with  flame. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver 
tongue. 
And  of  so  tierce  a  flight, 
From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung, 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which 
bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 
Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field 

flower, 
Tlie  I'ruitful  wit 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  S])ringing  forth 
anew 
Where'er  they  fell,  behold, 
Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance, 
grew 
A  flower  all  gold, 

And  bravely  furnish'd  all  abroad  to  fling 

The  winged  shafts  of  truth. 
To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breath- 
ing spring 
Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with 
beams, 
Tho'  one  did  fling  the  fire. 
Heaven   flow'd  upon  the  soul  in  many 
dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  tnith,  the 
world 
Like  one  great  garden  show'd, 


THE   SEA-FAIUIES. 


15 


And  thro*  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark 
upciui'd, 
Rare  sunrise  flow'd. 

And  Freedom  rear'J  in  that  august  sun- 
rise 
Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 
When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning 
eyes 
Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 

Sunn'd  by  those  orient  skies  ; 
But  round  about  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  ej'es 

And  in  her  miment's  hem  was  traced  in 
llame 
Wisdom,  a  name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power — a  sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake, 

Her  words  did  gatlier  thunder  as  they 
ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thtmder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man. 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning  to  lier  Mords.     No 
sword 
Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl'd, 
But  one  poor  poet's  scroll,  and  with  his 
word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE   POET'S   MIND. 


Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind 

With  thy  shallow  wit  : 
Vex  not  tho\i  the  poet's  mind  ; 

For  tliou  canst  not  fathom  it. 
Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a  crystal  river  ; 
Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 


Dark-brow  d  sophist,  come  not  anear  ; 

All  tlie  place  is  holy  ground  ; 
Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 

Come  not  here. 
Holy  water  will  I  pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower  _ 
Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it  around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cheer. 


1  n  your  eye  there  is  death, 
There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 
Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird's  din. 
In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the   merry 

bird  chants. 
It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 
In  the  middle  leaps  a  fountaiix 
Like  sheet  lightning, 
Ever  brightening 
With  a  low  melodious  thunder  ; 
All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  j'onder  : 
It  springs  on  a  level  of  bowery  lawn, 
And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven 

above, 
And  it  sings  a  song  of  undying  love  ; 
And  yet,  tho'  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full, 
Vou  never  would  hear  it  ;  your  ears  art 

so  dull  ; 
So  keep  wheie  you  are  :  you  are  foul  with 

sin  ; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came 
in. 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow  sail'd  the  weary  mariners  and  saw, 
Betwi.vt  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam. 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold  ;  and  while  they 
museil. 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear, 

Shrill  music  reach'd  them  on  the  middle 
sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 

away  {  fly  no  more. 
Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field, 

and  the  happy  blossonnng  .shore  '! 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain 

calls  ; 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  : 
Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells. 
And  thick  with  white  bells  th.?  clover-hill 

swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea  : 
0  hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  sails 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  ; 


16 


THE   DESEBTED  HOUSE. 


Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play  ; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  waiis  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day  : 
Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 
For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales, 
And  merrily,  merrily  carol  the  gales, 
And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and 

bay. 
And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the 

land 
Over  the  islands  free  ; 
And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of 

the  sand  ; 
Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 
And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising 

wave, 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave. 
And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be  : 
0  hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We  will   kiss  sweet  kisses,   and  speak 

sweet  words  : 
0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee  : 


0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden 

chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a  shore 
All  the  world  o'er,  all  the  world  o'er  ? 
Whither  away  ?  listen  and  stay :  mariner, 

mariner,  liy  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side. 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  : 
Careless  tenants  they  ! 


All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 


"  Lifs  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side." 


A  DIRGE. 


17 


Close  the  door,  tlie  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 


Come  away  :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  gi-ound. 


Come  away  :  for  Life  and  Thouglit 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 
But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 
A  mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with 


THE  DYING   SWAN. 


The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  tlie  air, 

Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 

With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 

Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 
And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on. 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 


Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  tlie  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow. 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and 

still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and 
yellow. 

III. 
The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow  :  at  iirst  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear  ; 
And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 


Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole 
Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear  ; 
But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice. 
With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 
Flow'd  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold  '. 
As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 
With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and 

harps  of  gold. 
And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll'd 
Thro'  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar. 
To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening 

star. 
And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering 

weeds. 
And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 
And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds. 
And  the  wave-worn  horns  of  the  echoing 

bank, 
And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  throng 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among. 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A  DIRGE. 

I. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work  ; 
Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 
Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 
Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  gi-ave. 

Let  them  lave. 


Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed  ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 
Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
l^'roin  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Crocodiles  v/ept  tears  for  thee  ; 
The  woodbine  and  eglatere 
Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor's  teai-. 
Let  them  rave. 


18 


THE   BALLAD    OF   ORIANA. 


Bain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O'er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale. 
And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 
These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro'  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine  ; 
The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover 

Let  them  rave. 
Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine. 
As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


Wild  words  wander  here  and  there 
God's  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused  : 

But  let  them  rave. 
The  balm-cricket  caiols  clear 
In  the  gi-een  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND   DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gather- 
ing light 
Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise, 
And  ail  about  him  roll'd  liis  lustrous  eyes ; 
When,  turning  round  a  cassia,  full  in 

view 
Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a  yew. 
And   talking  to  himself,   first  met  his 

sight : 
*'  You  must  begone,"  said  Death,  "  tliese 

walks  are  mine." 
Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans  for 

flight ; 
Yet  ere  he  parted  said,    "This  hour  is 

thine : 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the 

tree 
Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  beneath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death  ; 
The  shadow  passetli  when  the  Uee  shall 

fall, 
But  1  shall  reign  for  ever  over  all." 


THE  BALLAD   OF  ORIANA. 

My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 
Wlien  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb'd  with 

snow, 
And  loud  the  Norland  M'lmiwinds  blow, 

Oriana, 
Alone  I  wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  gi-owing, 

Oriana, 
At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana  : 
Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 
We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana  ; 
Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew- wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 
Ere  I  rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 
While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 
By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 
1  to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana  : 
She  watch'd  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana  : 
She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call, 
When  fortli  there  stept  a  foemau  tall, 

Oriana, 
Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana : 
The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 
Tlie  damned  arrow  glanced  aside, 
And  pierced  thy  lieart,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 
Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 

Oh  !  narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 
Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle's  brays, 

Oriana. 


THE   MERMAN. 


19 


Oh  !  deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace, 
The  battle  deepen'd  in  its  place, 

Oriana  ; 
But  I  was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana  ! 
How  could  I  rise  and  come  away, 

Oriaiui  ? 
How  could  1  look  upon  the  day  ? 
They  should  have  stabb'd  me  where  I  lay, 

Oriana  — 
They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

Oriana. 

0  breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 
Oriana  ! 

0  pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek, 

Oriana  ! 
Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 
And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek, 

Oriana  : 
What  vvantest  thou '  whom  dost  thou  seek , 

Oriana  ? 

1  cry  aloud  :  none  hear  my  cries, 

Oriana. 
Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  .skies, 

Oriana. 
I  feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 
Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes, 

Oriana. 
Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies, 

Oriana. 


0  cursed  hand  !  0  cursed  blow  ! 
Oriana ! 

0  happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

Oriana  ! 
All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 
Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Oriana. 
A  weary,  weary  way  I  go, 

Oriana. 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea, 
Oriana, 

1  walk,  I  dare  not  think  of  thee, 

Oriana. 
Thou  Uest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 
I  dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee, 

Oriana. 
I  hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea, 

Oriana. 


CIRCUMSTANCE. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 
Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  heathj 

leas  ; 
Two  strangers  meeting  at  a  festival ; 
Two  lovers  whisperingby  an  orchard  wall , 
Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden 

ease  ; 
Two   graves  grass-green   beside  a  graj 

church-tower, 
Wash'd    with    still    rains    and    daisy-. 

blossomed ; 
Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred  5 
So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to 

hour. 


THE  MERMAN. 


AVho  would  be 
A  merman  bold, 
Sitting  alone. 
Singing  alone 
Under  the  sea, 
With  a  crown  of  gold. 
On  a  throne  ? 


I  would  be  a  merman  bold  ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day ; 
I  would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a  voice  of 

power  ; 
But  at  night  I  would  roam  abroad  and 

play 
With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the 

rocks, 
Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea 

flower  ; 
And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing 

locks 
[  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly  ; 
And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 
To  the  pale -green  sea-groves  straight  and 

high. 
Chasing  each  other  merrily. 


There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star ; 
But  the  wave  would  make  music  above 

us  afar  — 
Low  thunder  and  light   in   the   magic 

night  -  — 


20 


SONNET   TO   J.   M.   K. 


Neither  moon  nor  star. 
We  wonld  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells, 
Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  ; 
They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles 

and  shells, 
Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  be- 
tween, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  : 
But   I    would   throw   to  them  back  in 

mine 
Turkis  and  agate  and  almoiidine  : 
Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 
I  would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 
And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss'd  me 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 
0,  what  a  happy  life  were  mine 
Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green  ! 
Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea  ; 
We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 


THE  MERMAID. 


Who  would  be 
A  mermaid  fair, 
Singing  alone. 
Combing  her  hair 
Under  the  sea. 
In  a  golden  curl 
With  a  comb  of  pearl. 
On  a  throne  ? 


T  would  be  a  mermaid  fair  ; 
I  would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the 

day  ; 
With  a  comb  of  pearl  I  would  comb  my 

hair  ; 
And  still  as  I  comb'd  I  would  sing  and 

say, 
"Who  is  it  loves  me?   who  loves  not 

me  ? " 
I  would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets 
would  fall 
Low  adown,  low  adown, 
From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 

Low  adown  and  around, 
A.nd  I  should  look  hke  a  fountain  of 
gold 
Springing  alone 
\Vith  a  shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall  j 


Till  that  gi'cat  sea-snake  under  the  sea 
From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 
Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenfold 
Round  the  hall  where  I  sate,  and  look  in 

at  the  gate 
With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me, 
And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 
Would  feel  their  immortality 
Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 


But  at  night  I  would  wander  away,  away, 
I   would  fling  on  each  side  my  low- 
flowing  locks. 
And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and 

play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the 

rocks  ; 
We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and 

seek, 
On  the  broad  sea-wolds  in  the  crimson 

shells, 
Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea. 
But  if  any  came  near  I  would  call,  and 

shriek. 
And  adown  the  steep  like  a  wave  I  would 

leap 
From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut  from 

the  dells  ; 
For  I  wouldnotbe  kiss'd  by  all  who  would 

list. 
Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea ; 
They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and 

flatter  me, 
In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea  ; 
But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me. 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me. 
In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea  ; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently. 
All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 
And  if  I  should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned, 

and  soft 
Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere 

of  the  sea, 
All  lookins;  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SONNET   TO   J.    M.    K, 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou 

wilt  be 
A  latter  Luther,  and  a  soldier-priest 
To  scare  church -harpies  from  the  master'g 

fedst  i 


THE   LADY    OF   SHALOTT. 


21 


Oiir  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of 

thee  : 
Thou  art  no  sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 
Distill'd     from     some     worm  -  cauker'd 

homily  ; 
But  spurr'd  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 
To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 
With  irou-worded  proof,  hating  to  hark 


The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 
Half  God's  good  sabbath,  whue  the  worn- 
out  clerk 
Brow-beats  his  desk  below.     Thou  from 

a  throne 
Mounted  in  heaven  wil  t  shoot  in  to  the  dark 
Arrows  of  lightnings.     1  will  stand  and. 
mark. 


POEMS. 

(published  1832.) 

This  division  of  this  voluin',  was  published  in  the  winter  of  1832.    Some  of  the  poems  have  been  considerably 
.iltered.    Others  have  been  added,  which,  with  one  exception,  were  written  in  1833.J 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


Os  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  thro'  the  iield  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower'd  ("amelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  jieople  go, 
Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below. 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver, 
Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Thro'  the  wave  tliat  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

no\\-ing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a  s})ace  of  tlowers. 
And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil'd, 
Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail'd 
By  slow  horses  ;  and  unhail'd 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken -sail' d 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 
Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 
■    The  Lady  of  Shalott  / 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 


Hear  a  song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearlj^, 

Down  to  tower'd  Camelot ; 
And  liy  the  moon  the  reaper  weary. 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airj'. 
Listening,  whispers  "'  Tis  the  fairy 

Lady  of  Shalott." 


There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A  magic  web  with  colors  gay. 
She  has  heard  a  whisper  say, 
A  curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be. 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily. 
And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro'  a  mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 
There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot: 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls. 
And  there  the  surly  village-churls, 
And  the  red  cloaks  of  market-girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a  troop  of  damsels  glad, 
An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad. 
Sometimes  a  curly  shepherd-lad. 
Or  long-hair'd  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower'  d  Camelot ; 
And  gometinies  tlu'o'  the  mirror  blue 


22 


THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT. 


The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two  : 
She  hath  no  loA'al  knight  and  true, 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  minor's  magic  sights, 
For  often  thro'  the  silent  nights 
A  funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights. 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 
Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 
"  I  am  half  sick  of  shadows,"  said 

The  Ladv  of  Shalott. 


A  BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves, 
He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves, 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro'  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 

Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 
A  red-cross  knight  for  ever  kueel'd 
To  a  lady  in  his  .shield. 
That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter'd  free, 
Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 
Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 
The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon'd  baldric  slung 
A  mighty  silver  bugle  hung. 
And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewell'd  shone  the  saddle-leather, 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
As  often  thro'  the  purple  night, 
Below  the  starry  clusters  bright. 
Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light. 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow'd ; 
On  burnish'd  hooves  his  war-horse  trode  ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow'd 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  lode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash'd  into  the  crystal  mirror, 
"  Tirra  lirra,"  V)V  the-river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 
She  made  thi'ee  paces  thro'  fhe  room, 


She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom, 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume, 

She  look'd  down  to  Camelot 
Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 
The  mirror  crack'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
"  The  curse  is  come  upon  me,"  cried 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


In  the  stomiy  east-wind  straining. 
The  pale  yellow  woods  were  \\aning. 
The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complain- 
ing, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower'd  Camelot ; 
Down  she  came  and  found  a  boat 
Beneath  a  willow  left  afloat. 
And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river's  dim  expanse  — 
Like  some  bold  seer  in  a  trance, 
Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 
With  a  glass}'  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 
And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 
She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  layj 
The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  — 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 
Thro'  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot; 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 
They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Heard  a  carol,  mournful,  holy, 
Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 
Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 
And  her  eyes  were  darken'd  wholly, 

Turn'd  to  tower'd  Camelot  > 
For  ere  she  reach'd  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 
Singing  in  her  song  she  died. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 

By  garden-wall  and  gallerj', 

A  gleaming  shape  she  floated  by. 

Dead-pale  between  the  liouses  higli. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 
Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 


MARIANA   IN    THE   SOUTH. 


2d 


"  ■  The  curse  is  come  upon  nie."  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame, 
And  louud  the  prow  they  read  her  name. 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ?  and  what  is  here  ? 
And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer  ; 
And  they  cross'd  themselves  for  fear, 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 
But  Lancelot  mused  a  little  space  ; 
He  said,  "  She  has  a  lovely  face  ; 
God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  gi'ace, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott." 


MARIANA   IX   THE  SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet. 
The  house  thro'  aU  the  level  shines, 


Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat. 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  -sines  : 
A  faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 
An  empty  river-bed  before, 
And  shallows  on  a  distant  shore^ 
In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  "Ave  Mary,"  made  she  moan, 
And ' '  Ave  JIary, "  night  and  monij 
And"Ah,"she  sang,  "  to  be  all  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 

Thro'  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 

To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear, 
Still-lighted  in  a  secret  shrine. 
Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 

The  home  of  woe  without  a  tear. 


24 


ELEANORE. 


And  "Ave  Mary,"  was  her  moan, 
"  Madonna,    sad    is    night    and 
mom"  ; 
And  "Ah, "she sang,  "tobeallalone. 
To  live  forgotten,   and  love  for- 
lorn." 

'fill  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 

Into  deep  orange  o'er  the  sea. 
Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast. 

Before  Our  Lady  murmur'd  she  ; 
Complaining,  "Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load." 
And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow'd 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

"  Is  this  the  foi'm,"  she  made  her 
moan, 
"  That  won  his  praises  night  and 
morn  ? " 
And  "Ah,"  she  said,  "but  I  wake 
alone, 
I  sleep  forgotten,  I  wake  forlorn." 

Nor  bird  wouldsing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat, 
Nor  an)'  cloud  would  cross  the  vault. 
But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat. 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 
Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 
And   seem'd  knee-deep  in  mountain 

gi'ass, 
And  heard  hei-  native  breezes  pass, 
And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 
She  breathed  in  sleep  a  lower  moan, 
And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and 
mom, 
She  thought,    ' '  My  spirit   is  here 
alone, 
"Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn." 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a  dream  : 
She  felt  he  was  and  Avas  not  there. 
She  woke  :  the  babble  of  the  stream 

Fell,  and,  n-ithout,  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 
The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 
And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Sti'uck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 
She  whisper'd,  with  a  stifled  moan 
More  in  ward  than  at  night  or  mom, 
"Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn." 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 
Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth. 

For  "  Love,"  they  said,  "must  needs  be 
true, 
To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth." 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 


To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 
"  But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 
So  be  alone  for  evermore." 

"0  cruel  heart,"  she  changed  hei 
tone, 
"And  cniel  love,  whose  end  is 
scorn. 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn  ! 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 

An  image  seem'd  to  pass  the  door, 
To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

"  But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more." 
And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 
And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 
"The  day  to  night,"  she  made  her 
moan, 
' '  The  day  to  night,  the  night  to 
morn. 
And  day  and  night  I  am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 

At  eve  a  dry  cicala  sung, 

Tliere  came  a  sound  as  of  the  sea  ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung, 

And  lean'd  upon  the  balcony. 
There  all  in  spaces  rosy -bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter'd  on  her  tears, 
And  deejiening  thro'  the  silent  spheres, 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weejung  then   she   made   her 
moan, 
"  The  night  comes  on  that  knows 
not  moi'n. 
When  I  shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  for- 
lorn." 


ELEANORE. 


Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not, 

Nor  flrst  reveal'd  themselvestoEnglist 
air. 
For  there  is  nothing  here. 
Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward 

brought. 
Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 
Far  off"  from  human  neighborhood, 

Thou  wert  born,  on  a  summer  m  jm, 
A  mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 
Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann'd 


ELEANORE. 


20 


With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 
But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious 
laud 
Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades  : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought, 
At  the  moment  of  thy  birth, 
From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills. 
And  the  hearts  of  pur[)le  liills. 

And  shadow'd  coveson  asuuny  shore, 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 
To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleiinore. 


Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 
Thro'  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze, 

Fed  thee,  a  child,  lying  alone, 
With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gar- 
dens cull'd  — 
A  glorious  child,  dreaming  alone, 
Insilk-soft  folds,  uponyieldingdown, 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  inU'd. 


Who  may  minister  to  thee  ? 
Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be. 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a  bower 
Grape-thicken'd    from    the    light,    and 
blinded 
With  many  a  deep-hued  bell-like 
flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 

Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven. 
And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 
All  along  the  shadowy  shore. 
Crimsons  over  an  inlanel  mere, 
Eleanore  ! 


How  may  full-sail'd  verse  express, 
Hi.w  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 
Eleanore  ? 
The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 
Eleanore  ? 
Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine, 
Every  lineament  divine, 
Eleanore, 


And  the  steady  sunset  glow, 
That  stays  upon  thee  ?  For  in  thee 
Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing 
single  ; 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
i'rom    one    censer,    in    one 

shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle. 
Mingle  ever.     Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho' 
They  were  modulated  so 

To  an  unheard  melody, 
W  hich  lives  about  thee,  and  a  sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep ; 
Who  may  exjjress  tljee,  Eleanore? 


I  stand  before  thee,  Eleanore  ; 

I  see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 
Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 
I  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  the  while 

Slowly,  as  from  a  cloud  of  gold. 
Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 
1  muse,  as  in  a  trance,  whene'er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.     I  would  I  were 

So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 
To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 
Gazing  on  thee  for  evennore, 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  ! 


Sometimes,  with  most  intensity 

Gazing,  I  seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  ov«r  thought,   smiling 

asleep. 
Slowly  awaken'd,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower'd  quite, 
I  cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight, 
But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light  : 
As  tho'  a  star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 
Ev'n  while  we  gaze  on  it, 
Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly 

grow 
To  a  full  face,  there  like  a  sun  remain 
Fix'd  —  then  as  slowly  fade  again. 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before  ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow. 
Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 

VII. 

As  thunder- clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 

Roof  d  the  world  with  doub  Land  fear, 
Floating  thro'  an  evening  atmosphere, 
Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky ; 


26 


THE   MILLER'S   DAUGHTEli 


In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless, 
Touch'd  by  thy  spirit's  mellowness, 
Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 

In  a  silent  meditation, 
Falling  into  a  still  delight, 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  : 
As  waves  that  up  a  quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  ajid  lying  still 

Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 
Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move, 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 
With  motions  of  the  outer  sea  : 
And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 
His  bow-string  slacken'd,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Droops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore. 
Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 


But  when  I  see  thee  roam,  with  tresses 

unconfined, 

While  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and 

the  moon  ; 

Oi-,  in  a  shadowy  saloon, 

On  silken  cushions  half' reclined  ; 

I  watch  thy  grace ;  and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a  charmed  sliDnber  keeps. 

While  I  muse  upon  thy  face  ; 
And  a  languid  fire  creeps 

Thro'  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  :  soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  MY  name 
Floweth  ;    and  then,  as  in  a  swoon, 
With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife. 
My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 
I  lose  my  color,  I  lose  my  breath, 
I  drink  the  cup  of  a  costly  death, 
Brimm'd    with    delirious    draughts    of 
warmest  life. 
I  die  with  my  delight,  before 
I  hear  what  I  would  hear  from 

thee ; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 
I  would  be  dying  evermore, 
So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE   MILLER'S   DAUGHTER. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet. 
His  doYible  chin,  his  portly  size. 

And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 
The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ? 


The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 
His  dusty  forehead  drily  curl'd, 

Seem'd  half-within  and  half-witliout. 
And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 

In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup— « 
I  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad. 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole, 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  :  give  me  one  kiss  : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There  's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There  's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife. 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I  'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk. 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 

Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire. 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long. 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro' 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin  song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan  ; 
But  ere  1  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play'd 

Before  I  dream'dthatpleasantdreani  — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway'd 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  lean'd  to  hear 

The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise, 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise. 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 


THE    miller's   daughter. 


27 


But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

AVTieu  after  roving  in  the  woods 
('T  was  April  then),  I  cunie  and  sat 

Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
1  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you. 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

4  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read, 

An  echo  tVom  a  measured  strain, 
Beat  time  to  notliing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  .song. 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watch'd  the  little  circles  die  ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood. 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye  ; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck, 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  rememlter,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement-edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge  : 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  full  and  bright  — 
Such  eyes  !  I  swear  to  you,  my  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispell'd  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death  : 
For  love  possess'd  the  atmosphere. 

And  fill'd  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought.  What  ails  the  boy  ? 

For  1  was  alter'd,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy. 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  biimming  wave  that  swam 

Thro'  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill. 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam, 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still, 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten' d  floor. 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 
When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 

And  April's  crescent  glimmer'd  cold, 
I  saw  the  villajre  lights  below  ; 


I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
Froni  ott'  tiie  wold  1  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flower'd  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan'd  beneath  the  mill ; 

And  "  by  that  lamp,"  1  thought,  "  she 
sits  !  " 
The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 

Gieam'd  to  the  flying  moon  by  flts. 
"  0  that  I  were  beside  her  now  ! 

0,  will  she  answer  if  I  call  l 
0,  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow, 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ?" 

Soniefmes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes   your  shadow   cross'd   the 
blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night. 

And  all  tlie  casement  darken'd  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak. 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with 
May, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flush'd  like  the  coming  of  the  day  ; 
And  so  it  was  —  half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 
She  wish'd  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

I  might  have  look'd  a  little  higher  ; 
And  I  was  young  —  too  young  to  wed  : 

"Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake; 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said  : 

Her  eyelid  quiver'd  as  she  spake. 

And  down  1  went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease  ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tiied. 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 
1  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well ; 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fall'n  in  tears, 

I  kiss'd  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watch'd  the  little  flutterings. 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see} 

She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things. 
And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me  ; 


28 


FATIMA. 


^nd  turning  look'd  upon  your  face, 
As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 

And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 
Approaching,  press'd  you  lieart  to  heart . 

Ah,  well  —  but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  seem. 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream. 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 


It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I  would  be  tlie  jewel 

That  trembles  at  her  ear  : 
For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 
I  'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  1  would  be  tlie  girdle 

About  her  dainty  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me. 
In  Koi'row  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I  'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

Witli  her  laughter  or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  niglit. 


A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells  — 

True  love  interprets  —  right  alone. 
His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells. 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 
So,  if  I  waste  words  now,  in  tnitn 

Yoii  must  blame  Love.     His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth. 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hotirs  are  gone. 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art, 
vVhere  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one, 

Do  make  a  garland  for  the  heart  : 
So  sing  tliat  other  song  I  made, 

Half-anger'd  with  my  happy  lot, 
The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 

I  found  the  bbie  Forget-me-not. 


Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net. 
Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 


Many  suns  arise  and  set. 
Many  a  chance  the  j^ears  beget. 
Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 
Lo\-e  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 
Love  is  made  a  vague  regret. 
Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 
Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 
What  is  love  ?  for  we  forget : 

Ah,  no  !  no  ! 


Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.     Trut 
wife. 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  en- 
twine ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life. 

Look  thro'  mj'  very  soul  with  thine  ! 
Untoueh'd  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed  :  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow  :  for  when  time  was  ripe. 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before  ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 

With  farther  lookings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  1  have  found  in  thee  : 
But  that  God  bless   thee,    dear  —  who 
wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth. 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds  ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north. 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds. 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below  : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

0  Love,  Love,  Love  !  O  withering  might  I 
0  sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  1  strain  mj'  sight. 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light, 


(ENONE. 


29 


Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,   parch'd  and  wither'd,    deaf  and 

blind, 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  ni^ht  I  wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city's  eastern  towers  : 
1  thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 
I  roU'd  among  the  tender  ilowers  : 
Icrush'd  them  on  my  breast,  my  mouth  : 
I  look'd  athwart  the  burning  droutli 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name. 
From  my  swift  blooil  that  went  and  came 
A  thousand  little  .shafts  of  fianie 
Were  shiver'd  in  my  narrow  frame. 

0  Love,  0  fire  !  once  he  drew 

With  one  long  kiss  my  wliole  soul  thro' 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  liill,  I  know 
He  Cometh  quicklj'^ :  from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a  silver  wire, 
And  from  beyond  the  noon  a  fire 
Is  pour'd  upon  the  hills,  and  niglier 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire  ; 
And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light. 
My  heart,  pierced  thro'  with  fierce  de- 
light, 
Bui'sts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 
Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 
1  ivill  possess  him  or  will  die. 

1  will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 
Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face. 
Die,  dying  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. 


(ENONE. 

There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the 

glen. 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine 

to  pine, 
Andloiters,  slowlv  drawn.   On  either  liand 


The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway 

down 
Hang  rich  in  fio\>:ers,  and  far  below  them 

roars 
The  long  brook  filling  thro'  the  clov'n 

ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 
Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarufj 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning  :  but 

in  front 
The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel. 
The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  at  noon 
Mournful  (Enone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Pai-i.s,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round 

her  neck 
Floated  her  liair  or  seeni'd  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a  fragment  twined  with 

vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  tlie  mountain- 
shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the 

upper  cliff. 

"0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill : 
The  grassho2ii)er  is  silent  in  the  grass  : 
The  lizard,  witli  his  shadow  on  the  stone. 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop  :  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :  I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love. 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim. 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

"  0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
Hear  me,  0  Earth,  hear  me,  0  Hills,  C 

Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown'd  snake  !  0 

mountain  brooks, 
I  am  the  daughter  of  a  River-God, 
Hear  me,  for  I  will  .speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a  music  slowly  breathed, 
A  cloud  that  gather'd  shape :  for  it  maybe 
That,  while  I  speak  of  it,  a  little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

"0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
I  waited  imderneath  the  dawning  hills. 
Aloft  tlie  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark. 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine  : 


80 


fENONE. 


Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Pans, 
Leadiug  a  jet-black  goat  white-horn'd, 

wliite-hooved, 
Caine  u])  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

"0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Far-ofF  the  torrent  oall'd  me  from  the 

cleft  : 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.     With  down- 

dropt  eyes 
1  sat  alone  :  white-breasted  like  a  star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved  ;  a  leopard 

skin 
Droop'd  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny 

hair 
Cluster'd  about  his  temples  like  a  God's  : 
And  his  cheek  hrighten'd  as  the  foam- 
bow  brightens 
When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all 

my  heart 
Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere 

he  came. 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  barken  ere  I  die. 
He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white 

palm 
Disclosed  a  fruit  of  i)ure  Hesperian  gold, 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  1  look'd 
And  listen'd,   the  full-flowing  river  of 

s])eech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

"  'My  own  (Enone, 
Beautiful-brow'd  OEnone,  my  own  soul, 
Beliold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind 

ingrav'n 
"For the  most  fair,"  would  seem  to  award 

it  thine. 
As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movenient,  and  the  charm  of  married 

brows. ' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine, 
And  added  '  This  was  cast  upon  the  board. 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the 

Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus ;  whereupon 
Rose   feud,   with   question  unto  whom 

't  were  due  : 
Bi;t  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve. 
Delivering,  that  to-jne,  by  common  voice. 
Elected  umpire,  Here  comes  to-day, 
Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  eacli 
This  meed  of  fairest.     Thou,  within  the 


Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldestplne, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  uubeheld,  un- 
heard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
It  was  the  deep  miduoon  :  one  silvery 

cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piney  sides 
Of  this  long  glen.      Then  to  the  bower 

they  came, 
Xaked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded 

bower, 
.■\ndat  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel. 
Lotos  and  lilies  :  and  a  wind  arose, 
.\nd  overhead  the  wanderingivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a  wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro' 

and  thro'. 

"  0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
On  the  tree-tops  a  crested  peacock  lit. 
And  o'er  him  flow'd  a  golden  cloud,  and 

lean'd 
Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I  heard  the  voice  of  her,  to 

whom 
Coming  thro'  Heaven,  like  a  light  that 

grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the 

Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.     She  to  Paris  made 
Profl'er  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion'd,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith    to   embellish   state,    '  from 

many  a  vale 
And   river-sunder'd  champaign  clothed 

with  corn. 
Or  labor'd  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 
Honor,'  she  said,  'and  homage,  tax  and 

toll. 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven 

large, 
Mast-throng'd   beneath   her   shadowing 

citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.' 

"  0  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  of 
power, 

'  Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 

Power  fitted  to  the  season  ;  wisdom-bred 

And  throned  of  wisdom  —  from  all  neigh- 
bor crowns 

Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hsnd 


CENONE. 


81 


Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.     Such  boon 

from  me, 
From   me,    Heaven's   Queen,    Paris,    to 

thee  king-born, 
A  shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born, 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men, 

in  power. 
Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain'd 
Rest  in  a  happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  liarken  ere  I  die. 
She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 
Out  at  arm's-length,  so  much  the  thought 

of  power 
Flatter'd  his  spirit  ;  but  Pallas  where  she 

stood 
Somewhat  apart,  herclearandbaredlimbs 
O'erthwarted    with    the    brazen-headed 

spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 
The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

"'Self- reverence,  self-knowledge,  self- 
control. 
These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign 

power. 
Yet  not  for  power,  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall'd  for)  but  to  live  by 

law. 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear  ; 
And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were   wisdom   in   the   scorn   of  conse- 
quence. ' 

"Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Again  she  said  :  'I  wootheenotwithgifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.     Judge  thou  me  by  what  I  am. 
So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed. 
If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbiass'd  by  self-profit,  0,  rest  thee  sur<! 
That  I  shall  love  thee  well  and  cleave  to 

thee. 
So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 
Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,   like  a 

God's, 
To  push  theeforward  thro'  alife  of  shocks. 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew'd  with  action,  and  the  full-grown 

will, 


Circled  thro'  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.' 

• '  Here  she  ceased, 
And  Paris  ponder'd,  and  I  cried,  '0  Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas  ! '  but  he  heard  lae  not, 
Or  liearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me  I 

"  0  mother  Ida,  many-fountain'd  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  liarken  ere  I  die. 
Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful. 
Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphiar 

wells. 
With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her 

deep  hair 
Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder  :  from  the  violets  her  light 

foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o'er  her  rounded 

fonu 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated   tlie   glowing  sunlights,  as  she 

moved. 

"  Dear  mother  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Slie  with  a  subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 
The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half-whisper'd  in  his  ear,  '  I  promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece. ' 
She  spoke  and  laugh'd  :  I  sluit  my  sight 

for  fear  : 
But  when  I  look'd,  Paris  had  raised  his 

arm. 
And  I  beheld  great  Here's  angry  eyes. 
As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud. 
And  I  was  left  alone  within  the  bower  ; 
And  from  that  time  to  this  I  am  alone, 
And  I  shall  be  alone  until  I  die. 

"Yet,  nfcther  Ida,  harken  ere  I  die. 
Fairest  —  why  fairest  wife  ?  am  I  not  fair  ? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a  thousand  times. 
Methinks  I  must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 
When  I  past  by,  a  wild  and  wanton  pard, 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful 

tail 
Crouch'd  fawning  in  the  weed.     Most 

loving  is  she  ? 
Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my 

arms 
Were  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips 

prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling 

dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 


82 


THE   SISTERS. 


"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  j^ines, 
My  dark  tall  pines,    that  plumed   the 

craggy  ledge 
High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster'd  the  callow  eaglet — from  lieneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  boughs  in  the 

dark  morn 
The  panther's  roar  came  muffled,  while  I 

sat 
Low  in  the  valley.     Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro'  them  ;  never  see  them  over- 
laid 
With  narrow  moon-lit  slips  of  silver  cloud. 
Between  the  loud  stream  and  the  trembling 
stars. 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  wish  that  somewhere  in  the  ruin'd  folds. 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the 

glens. 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I  could  meet  with  her. 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall. 
And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  board, 
And  bred  this  change ;  that  1  might  speak 

my  mind. 
And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I  hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and 

men. 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a  thousand 

times. 
In  this  green  valley,  iinder  this  green  hill, 
Ev'n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this 

stone  ? 
Seal'd  it  with  kisses  ?  water'd  it  with 

tears  ?  • 

0  happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these  ! 
0  happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my 

face  ? 
0  happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my 

weight  ? 

0  death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating 

cloud. 
There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth. 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live  : 

1  iJray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life. 
And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  1  may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within. 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  ej'elids  :  let  me  die. 

"0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
I  will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 


Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more 

and  more, 
Whereof  I  catch  the  issue,  as  I  hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  in- 
most hills. 
Like  footsteps  upon  wool.     I  dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a  mothei 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born  :   her  child  !  • —  a  shuddei 

comes 
Across  me  :  never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father's  eyes  I 

' '  0  mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I  die. 
Hear  me,  0  earth.  I  will  not  die  alone. 
Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of 

Death 
IJncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.     I  will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come 

forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A  fire  dances  before  her,  and  a  sound 
Pdngs  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 
What  this  may  be  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  am  by  night  and  day. 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire. 


THE  SISTERS. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face  : 

The  wind  is  blo-\\-ing  in  turret  and  tree 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

She  died  :  she  went  to  burning  flame  : 
She  mix'd  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  mouths,  and  early  and 

late, 
To  win  his  love  I  lay  in  wait  : 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  made  a  feast  ;  I  bade  him  come  ; 
I  won  his  love,  I  brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a  bed. 
Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head  : 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  kiss'd  his  eyelids  into  rest  : 
His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 
The  wind  is  rasint;  in  turret  and  tree, 


THE    PALACE   OF   ART. 


33 


t  hated  him  with  the  hate  of  Iiell, 
But  I  loved  his  beauty  luissiug  well. 
0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  rose  up  in  the  silent  night  : 

I  made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 
As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew, 
Three  times  I  stabb'd  him  thro'  and  thro'. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I  curl'd  and  comb'd  his  comely  head, 
He  look'd  so  gi-and  when  he  was  d  -ad. 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I  wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet. 
And  laid  him  at  his  mother's  feet. 

0  the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


TO 


WITH    THE    FOLLOWING    POEM. 

I  SEND  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory, 
(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a  soul, 
A  sinful  soul  jjossess'd  of  many  gifts, 
A  si)aeious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 
A  glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain, 
That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty  seen 
In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind) 
And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty  ;  or  if  Good, 
Good  only  for  its  lieauty,  seeing  not 
That  lieauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge,  are 

three  sisters 
That  doat  upon  each  other,  friends  to 

man, 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof. 
And  never  can  be  sunder'd  without  tears. 
And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall 

be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  thresh- 
old lie 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.     Not  for  this 
Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common 

earth. 
Moulded  by  God,  and  ternper'd  with  the 

tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE   PALACE   OF   ART. 

I  BUILT  my  .soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house, 

Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 
I  said,  "OSoul,  makemerrj  and  carouse, 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well." 


A  huge  crag-platform,   smootli  as  bur- 
nish'd  brass 
I  chose.     The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
.Suddenly  scaleil  the  light. 

Thereon  I  built  it  tiini.     Of  ledge  or  shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 
M}'  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  "while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,"  I  .said, 
"Eeign  thou  apart,  a  quiet  king. 
Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  stedfast 
shade 
Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring." 

To  which  my  soul  made  an.swer  readily  : 

"Trust  me,  in  bliss  I  shall  abide 
In  thisgreat  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me. 
So  loyal-rich  and  wide." 


Four  courts  I   made,   East,    West  and 
South  and  North, 
In  each  a  squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A  flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there 
ran  a  row 
Of    cloisters,    branch'd    like   mighty 
woods, 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a  gilded  gallery 

That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands, 
Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the 
sky 
Dipt  doW'U  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one 
swell 
Across  the  mountain  stream'd  below 
In  mist)^  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a  torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  everj'  peak  a  statue  seem'd 

To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A  cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam'd 
From  out  a  golden  cup. 


S4 


THE  PALACE  OF  AKT. 


So  that  slie  thought,   "And  who  shall 
gaze  upou 
My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 
"While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ? " 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  nevar 
fail'd. 
And,    while    day   sank    or   mounted 
higher 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  goklen-rail'd, 
Burnt  like  a  fringe  of  iire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain'd 
and  traced, 
Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow'd  gi'ots  of  arches  interlaced. 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 


Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was, 

That  over-vaulted  gi-ateful  gloom, 
Thro'  which  the  Livelong  day  my  soul  did 
pass, 
Well-pleased,  fi-om  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace 
stood. 
All  various,  each  a  perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  ■""Ith  arras  green  and 
blue, 
Showing  a  gaudy  summer-morn, 
Where   with    putFd    cheek    the    belted 
hunter  blew 
His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red  —  a  tract  of 
sand, 
And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  for  ever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coastand  angry  waves. 
You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing 
caves, 
Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  \\'inding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low. 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 


And   one,   the   reapers   at   their  sultrj 
toil. 
In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.    Be 
hind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 
And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones 
and  slags. 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the 
scornful  crags. 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home  —  gray  twi- 
liglit  pour'd 
On  dewy  pastures,  de\V}'  trees. 
Softer  than  sleep  —  all  things  in  order 
stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair, 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind. 
Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stern,  wa.s 
there 
Not  less  than  truth  de.-agn'd. 


Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  cmcifix. 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch- work  of  costly  sardonyx 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a  clear-wall'd  city  on  the  sea, 
Near  gilded  organ -pipes,  hei  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses,  .slept  St.  Cecily ; 
An  angel  look'd  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise 

A  gi'oup  of  Houris  bow'd  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said.  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther's  deeply-wounded  son 

In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 
And  watch'd  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowing  one  hand  against  his  ear, 

To  list  a  foot-fall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay'd  the  Ausoniap 
king  to  hear 
Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 


THE   PALACE   OF   ART. 


35 


Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail'd, 

And  many  a  tract  ol"  palm  and  rice, 
The  throne  of  Indian  Cania  slowly  sail'd 
A  summer  fanu'd  witli  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd, 
From  ott'her  slioulder  backward  borne  : 
From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus :    one 
hand  grasp'd 
The  mild  bull's  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half-buried  in  the  Eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  thro'  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar'd  town. 

^or  these  alone  :  but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design'd. 


Then  in  the  towers  I  placed  great  bells 
that  swung, 
Mov'd  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I 
hung 
Tlie  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a  seraph  strong, 
Beside    him   Shakespeare   bland   and 
mild  ; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp'd 
his  song, 
And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 

A  million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  ; 
A  hundred  winters  snow'd  upon  his  breast. 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 

Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift. 
And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann'd 

With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail 

The  people  here,  a  beast  of  burden  slow, 
Toil'd  onward,  prick'd  with  goads  and 
stings  ; 


Here  play'd,  a  tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings  ; 

Here  rose,  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or 
bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 
And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man 
declined. 
And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod  :  and  those  great 
bells 
Began  to  chime.    She  took  her  throne  ; 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 
To  sing  her  songs  alone. 

And  thro'  the  topmost  Oriels'  colored  flame 

Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below  ; 
Plato  the  wise,  andlarge-brow'd  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion 
were 
Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change, 
Bet'.vixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon'd 
fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange  : 

Thro'   which   the  lights,    rose,    amber, 
emerald,  blue, 
Flush'd  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes, 
And  from  her  lips,  as  mom  from  Mem- 
non,  drew 
Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 

Her  low  preamble  all  alone, 
More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo'dsong 
Throb  thro'  the  ribbed  stone  ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feaslful 
mirth, 
Joying  to  feel  herself  alive. 
Lord  over  Nature,   Lord  of  the  visible 
earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 

Communing  with  herself:    "All   these 
are  mine, 
And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 
'T  is  one  to  me."     She  —  when  young 
night  divine 
Crown'd  dying  day  witii  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  hisdelicioustoils-— 

Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 
And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hoUow'd  moons  of  gems, 


36 


THE   PALACE   OF  ART. 


To  mimic  heaven  ;  and  clapt  her  hands 
and  cried, 
"  I  marvel  if  my  still  delight 
Inthisgreathouse  so  royal-rich,  and  wide. 
Be  flatter'd  to  the  height. 

"  0  all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes  ! 

0  shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well  ! 
0  silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  1  dwell  ! 

^'  0  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1  can  hut  count  thee  perfect  gain, 
What  time  1  watch  the  darkening  droves 

of  swine 
That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

"In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a  prurient 
skin, 
They  graze  andwallow,  breedand sleep ; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in. 
And  drives  them  to  the  deep." 

Then  ofthe  moral  instinct  would  she  prate 

And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 
Ashersbyrightof  fuU-accomplish'dFate; 
And  at  the  last  she  said  : 

"  I  take  possession  of  man's  mind  and 
deed. 
I  care  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 
I  sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed. 
But  contemplating  all." 


Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 

Flash'd  thro'  her  as  she  sat  alone, 
Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth. 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper'd  :  so  three 
years 
She  prosper'd  :  on  the  fourth  she  fell, 
Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his 
ears. 
Struck  thro'  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  .she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 
Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she   woirld   think,   Mhere'er   she 
turn'd  her  sight 
The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 


Wrote  "  Mene,  mene,"  and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 
Fell  on  lier,  from  which  mood  \\"as  born 
Scorn  of  herself ;  again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

"  What !  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength, '' 
she  said, 
"My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me, 
Whereof   the   strong  foundation-stones 
were  laid 
Since  my  first  memory  ? " 

But  in  dark  comers  of  her  palace  stood 

Uncertain  shapes  ;  and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears 
of  blood. 
And  horrible  nightmares. 

And  hollow  .shades  enclosing  hearts  of 
flame. 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all, 
On  corpses  three-months-old  at  noon  she 
came. 
That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A  spot  of  dull  stagnation,  witliout  light 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem'd  my  soul, 
'Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A  still  salt  pool,  lock'd  in  with  bars  of 
sand  ; 
Left  on  the  .shore  ;  that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from 
the  land 
Tlieir  moon-led  waters  white. 

A  star  that  with  the  choral  starr)^  dance 
Join'd  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Koll'd  round  by  one  fix'd  law. 

Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had 
curl'd. 
"  No  voice,"  she  shriek'd  in  that  lone 
hall, 
"No  voice  breaks  thro'  the  stillness  of 
this  world  : 
One  deep,  deep  silence  all ! " 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth's 
mouldering  sod, 
Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 
Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 
Lost  to  her  place  and  name ; 


LADx    CL4.RA   VEllE   DE  VERE. 


37 


And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 
But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eteiuity. 
No  comfort  anywhere  : 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears. 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time, 
And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears, 
And  all  alone  in  crime  : 

Shutupasinacrumblingtomb,  girt  round 

With  blackness  as  a  solid  wall. 
Far  off  she  seem'd  to  hear  tlie  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a  traveller  walking 
slow. 
In  doubt  and  gi-eat  perplexitj', 
A  little  before  moon-vise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea  ; 

And  knows  not  if  it  be  thunder  or  a  sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts  ;  then  thinketh,  "  I 
have  found 
A  new  land,  but  I  die." 

She  howl'd  aloud,  "  I  am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murnuir  of  reply. 
What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin. 
And  save  me  lest  I  die  ? " 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished. 

She  threw  her  royal  robes  away. 
"Make  me  a  cottage  in  the  vale,"  shesaid, 
"Where  I  may  mounj  and  pray. 

"Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers, 
that  are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 
Perchance  I  may  return  with  others  there 
When  I  have  purged  my  guilt." 

LADY  CLARA  VERE  DE  VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown  : 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name, 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine. 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms,     i 


A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Claiu  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pujjil  you  must  find, 
Foi-  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
Von  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  1. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 

Since  1  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
0,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies  : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be  ; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view. 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear  ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall  : 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door  : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall. 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse. 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  j-ou  fix'd  a  vacant  stare. 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  gardener  Adam  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent, 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets. 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  jiine  among  your  halls  and  towers : 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowinghealth,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease. 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as 
these. 


38 


THE   ISTAY   QUEEN. 


"  The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earts, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired." 


Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  yonr  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh  !  teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew, 
Pray  Heaven  for  a  liunian  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE   MAY   QUEEN". 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call 

me  early,  mother  dear  ; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of 

all  the  glad  New-year  ; 
Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,   the 

maddest  merriest  day  ; 


For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 
I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There 's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say, 

but  none  so  bright  as  mine  ; 
There 's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there 's  Kate 

and  Caroline  : 
But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the 

land  they  say. 
So  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that 

I  shall  never  wake. 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day 

begins  to  break  : 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and 

buds  and  garlands  gay, 
For  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May, 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 


39 


'  You  must  wake  ami  call  nic  cirly,  call  me  early,  mother  dear ; 
To-morrow  II  be  the  hapiiicit  time  of  all  the  glad  N"ew-year  " 


A.S  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye 

should  I  see, 
But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath 

the  hazel-tree  ? 
He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother, 

I  gave  him  yesterday,  — 
But  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I 

was  all  in  white, 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like 

a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care 

not  wha^  they  say. 
For  I  -ni  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


They  say  he 's  dying  all  for  love,  but  the 

can  never  be  : 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  — 

what  is  that  to  me  ? 
There  's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me 

any  summer  day. 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  Maj^ 

Little  EfRe  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow 

to  the  green, 
And  you  '11  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see 

me  made  the  Queen  ; 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill 

come  from  far  away. 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May.  mother, 

I '  m  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


40 


THE   MAY   QUEEN. 


The   honeysuckle   round  the  porch  has 

wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 
And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the 

faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers  ; 
And  the  wild  niarsh-niarigold  shines  like 

fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 
And  1  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  IMay,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother, 

upon  the  meadow-grass. 
And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to 

brighten  as  they  j^ass  ; 
There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole 

of  the  livelong  day, 
And  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  jMay,  mother, 

1  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fre-sh  and 

gi'een  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are 

over  all  the  hill, 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill 

merrily  glance  and  play. 
For  1  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  JMay,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call 

me  early,  mother  dear, 
To-moiTow  'ill  be  the  haj^piest  time  of  all 

the  glad  New-year  : 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the 

maddest  merriest  day, 
for  I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I  'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 


NEW-YEAR'S  EVE. 

If  you  *re  waking  call  me  early,  call  me 

early,  mother  dear. 
For  I  would  see  the  suu  rise  upon  the 

glad  New-year. 
It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever 

see. 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  1'  the  mould 

and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set  :  he  set  and 

left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time, 

and  all  my  peace  of  mind  ; 
Aiid  the  New-year 's  coming  up,  mother, 

but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf 

upon  the  tree. 


Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers . 

we  had  a  merry  day  ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  tlie  green  thej 

made  me  Queen  of  May  ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and 

in  the  hazel  copse. 
Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the 

tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There  's  not  a  flower  on  all  the  hills : 
the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 

1  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops 
come  again  : 

I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun 
come  out  on  high  : 

I  longtoseeaflower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 

The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy 

tall  elm -tree. 
And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the 

fallow  lea. 
And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again 

with  summer  o'er  the  wave. 
But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the 

mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the   chancel-casement,  and  upon 

that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer 

sun  'ill  shine. 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm 

upon  the  hill. 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and 

all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother, 
beneath  the  waning  light 

You  '11  never  see  me  more  in  the  long 
gray  fields  at  night ; 

"WHien  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  sum- 
mer airs  blow  cool 

On  the  oat -grass  and  the  sword-grass, 
and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You  '11  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath 

the  hawthorn  shade. 
And  you  '11  come  sometimes  and  see  me 

where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall 

hear  you  when  you  pass, 
With   your  feet  above  my  head  in  the 

long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wajrward,  but  you  '11 

forgive  me  now  ; 
You  '11  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and 

forgive  me  ere  I  go  ; 


CONCLUSION. 


41 


Nay,  nay,  you  mnst  not  weep,  nor  let 

your  grief  be  wild. 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you 

liave  another  child. 

If  I  can  I  '11  come  again,  mother,  from 

out  my  resting-place  ; 
Tho'  you  '11  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall 

look  upon  j'our  face  ; 
Tho'  I  cannot   s])eak    a   word,    I    shall 

harken  what  you  say. 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you 

think  I  'm  far  away. 

Good-night,   good-night,    when    1    liave 

said  good-night  for  evermore. 
And   you   see  me  carried  out  from  the 

threshold  of  the  door  ; 
Don't  let  Elfie  come  to  see  me  till  my 

gi'ave  be  growing  gi'eeii  : 
She  '11  be  a  better  child   to   you   than 

ever  I  have  been. 

She  '11   find   my  garden-tools  upon  the 

granary  Hoor : 
Let  her  take  'em  :  they  are  hers  :  I  shall 

never  garden  more  : 
But  tell  her,  when   1  'm  gone,  to  train 

the  rose-bush  that  1  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the    box 

of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother  :  call  me  be- 
fore the  day  is  born. 

All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at 
morn  ; 

But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the 
glad  New-year, 

So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION". 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet 
alive  1  am  ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the 
bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morn- 
ing of  the  year  ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and 
now  the  violet 's  here. 

0  sweet  is  the  new  violet,   that  comes 

beneath  the  skies. 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice 

to  me  that  cannot  rise, 


And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all 

the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  deatli  than  life  to  me 

that  long  to  go. 

It   seem'd  so  liard  at  first,  mother,  tc 

leave  the  blessed  sim. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and 

yet  His  will  be  done  ! 
But  still  1  think  it  can't  be  long  before 

I  find  release  ; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has 

told  me  words  of  peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on 

his  silver  hair  ! 
And   blessings   on  his  whole  life  long, 

until  he  meet  me  there  ! 

0  blessings  on  lus  kindly  heart  and  on 

his  silver  head  ! 
A  thousand  times  I   blest  him,  as  he 
knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He   taught   me   all   the   mercy,  for  he 

show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'   my  lamp  was   lighted  late, 

there  's  One  will  let  me  in  : 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again, 

if  that  could  be. 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that 

died  for  me. 

1  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or 

the  death-watch  beat. 
There   came  a  sweeter  token  when  the 

night  and  morning  meet  : 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put 

j'our  hand  in  mine. 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will 

tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard 

the  angels  call ; 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and 

the  dark  was  over  all ; 
The  trees   began   to   whisper,   and   the 

wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March -morning  1  heard 

them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you 

and  EflSe  dear ; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no 

longer  here  ; 
With  all  my  strength  1  pray'd  for  both, 

and  so  I  felt  resign'd. 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music 

on  the  wind. 


42 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd 

in  my  bed. 
And  then  did  something  speak  to  me  — 

I  know  not  wliat  was  said  ; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took 

liold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music 

on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping  ;  and  I  said,  "  It's 

not  for  tliem  :  it's  mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought, 

I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside 

the  window-bars. 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven 

and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  tru;.' 

it  is.     I  know 
The   blessed   music  went  that  way  my 

soul  Mill  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go 

to-day. 
But,  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I 

am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Eobin  a  kind  word,  and  tell 

him  not  to  fret ; 
There  's  many  a  v\'orthier  than  I,  would 

make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived  —  I  cannot  tell  —  I  might 

have  been  his  wife  ; 
But  all  these  things  Jiave  ceased  to  be, 

with  my  desire  of  life. 

0  look  !   the   sun   begins   to  rise,    the 

heavens  are  in  a  glow  ; 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all 

of  them  I  know. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and 

there  his  light  may  shine  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands 

than  mine. 

0  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that 

ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be 

beyond  the  sun- — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just 

souls  and  true  — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ? 

why  make  we  such  ado  ? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed 

home  — 
And  there  to  ^-ait  a  little  while  till  you 

and  Effie  come  — 


To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  1  ii«3 

upon  your  breast  — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE   LOTOS-EATERS. 

"  Courage  !  "    he   said,    and    pointef 

toward  the  land, 
"This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  .shore 

ward  .soon." 
In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  landj 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did 

SM'oon, 
Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  wearv 

dream. 
Full-faced    above   the  valley  stood  ths 

moon  ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 

stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 

did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams !  some,  like  a  downward 

smoke, 
Slow-droi)ping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did 

go; 
And    some    thro'   Avavering  lights   and 

shadows  broke. 
Rolling  a  slumbroTis  sheet  of  foam  below. 
They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward 

flow 
From    the   inner  land :    far  off,    three 

mountain-tops. 
Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 
Stood  sunset-flush'd  :   and,  dew'd  with 

showery  drops, 
Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the 

woven  copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West  :  thro'  mountain  clefti 

the  dale 
AVas  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Boi'der'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding 

vale 
And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale  ; 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd 

the  same  ! 
And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  ])ale  against  that  rosy  flame. 
The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters 

came. 


CHORIC    SONG. 


43 


"--'nw^^73H^ 


■To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast,— 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest." 


Branches  they  bore  of  tliat  enchanted 

stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they 

gave 
To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores  ;  and  if  liis  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the 

gi'ave  ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart 

did  make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Father-land* 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave  ;  but  ever- 
more 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar. 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,   "We  will  return 

no  more  "  ; 
And  all  at  once  they  sang,   "Our  island 

home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave  ;  we  will  no  longer 
roam." 


CHORIC   SONG. 


There  is  .sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  ro.sesonthegrass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between 

walls 
0(  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass  ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies. 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from 

the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep. 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  tlie  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers 

weep. 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy 

hangs  in  sleep. 


Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress, 
While  all  things   else   have   rest   from 

weariness  ? 
All   things   have  rest :    why  should  we 

toil  alone, 
Wu  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  thiug.s. 


44 


CHOmC   SONG. 


And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown  : 

Nor  ever  fold  onr  Avings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy 

balm  ; 
Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 
"There  is  no  joy  but  calm  !  " 
Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and 

crown  of  things  ? 


Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  tlie  wood 
The  folded  leaf  is  woo'd  from  out  the  bud 
With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes   ;io 

care, 
Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-f(;d  ;  and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 
Lo  !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 
The    full -juiced    apple,    waxing    over- 
mellow. 
Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 
All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 
The  llower  ripens  in  its  place, 
Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no 

toil. 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky. 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.    Time  driveth  onward  fast. 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  tilings  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadfiil  Past. 
Let  us  alone.    What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward 

the  grave 
In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death, 

or  dreamful  ease. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward 

stream. 
With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 
To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 

light, 


Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on 

the  heiglit ; 
To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 
I'lating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 
I'o  watch  thecrispingrippleson  the  beach, 
Andtendercurving  lines  of  creamyspray ; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melan< 

choly  ; 
To   muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in 

memory, 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass. 
Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an 

urn  of  brass  ! 


Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wive.« 
And   their   warm   tears  :   but   all   hath 

suffer'd  cha-nge  ; 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths 

are  cold  : 
Our  sons  inheritus  :  our  looksare  strange: 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble 

joy- 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel 

sings 
Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as   half-forgotten 

things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 
Let  what  is  bioken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 
'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 
Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain. 
Long  labor  unto  aged  breath. 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many 

wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the 

pilot-stars. 


But,  propton  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 
How  sweet  (while  warm   airs   lull  us, 

blowing  lowly) 
With  half-dropt  eyelids  still. 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy. 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing 

slowly 
His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'  the  thick-twined 

vine  — 


A   DREAM    OF   FAIR   WOMEN. 


45 


To  watch  theemerald-color'dw.atcrfalling 
Tluo'    many   a   wov'n   acanthus-wreath 

divine  ! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling 

brine, 
Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out 

beneath  the  pine. 


The  Lotos  blooms  beloAV  the  barren  peak  ■ 
The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  cri'ck  : 
All   day   the   wind   breathes   low   with 

mellower  tone  : 
Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 
Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the 

yellow  Lotus-dust  is  blown. 
We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of 

motion  we, 
Roll'd  to  starboai'd,  roll'd  to  larboard, 

when  the  surge  was  seething  free, 
When^  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his 

foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 
Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with 

an  equal  mind, 
In  the  hollow  Lotos-laud  to  live  and  lie 

reclined 
On  the  hills  like  Gods  togetlier,  careless 

of  mankind. 
For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the 

bolts  are  hurl'd 
Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 

clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 
Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with 

the  gleaming  world  : 
Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 

wasted  lands. 
Blight  and  famine,   plague  and  earth- 
quake,   roaring  deeps  and   fiery 

sands. 
Clanging  lights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 

sinking  ships,  and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred 

in  a  doleful  song 
Steamingup,  alamentationandanaucieut 

tale  of  wrong, 
Li'."e  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the 

words  are  strong  ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-used  race  of  men  that 

cleave  the  soil. 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with 

enduring  toil. 
Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil ; 
Till  they  perish  and  they  sufler  —  some, 

't  is  whisper'd  —  down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 

valleys  dwell, 


Resting  weary  limbs  ai  last  on  beds  of 

asidiodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more   sweet 

tban  toil,  th?  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  dee|)  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  waxii  and  oar  ; 
0  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 

wander  more. 


A   DREAM   OF   FAIR   WOMEN. 

I  RE.\D,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their 
shade, 
"The  Legend  of  Good  IVoinen,"  long 
ago 
Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who 
made 
His  music  heard  below  ; 

Dan   Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose 
sweet  breath 
Preluded    those   melodious    bursts, 
that  fill 
The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabetl? 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a  while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong 
gales 
Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho' 
my  heart. 
Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 

Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.     In 
every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illumineth. 
Beauty  and  anguish  walkinghand  inhand 

The  downward  slope  to  death. 

Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancientsong 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burn- 
ing stars. 
And  I  heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and 
WTong, 
And  trumpets  blown  for  wars  ; 

And  clattering  flints  batter'd  with  clang- 
ing hoofs  : 
And  I  saw  crowds  in  column'd  sanc- 
tuaries ; 
And  forms  that  pass'd  at  windows  and 
on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold  ;  heroes  tall 
Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 


46 


A  DREAM    OF   FAIR   WOMEN. 


"  O  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more.' 


Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 
Lances  in  amhusli  set ; 

And  high  shrine-doors  burst  t-hro"  wdth 
heated  blasts 
That  run  before  the  fl  uttering  to!>gwes 
of  fire  ; 
White  surf  wind-scatter'd  over  sails  and 
masts, 
And  ever  climbing  higlter  ; 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  bra/.en 
plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers 
woes. 


Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iror 
grates, 
And  hushed  seraglios. 

So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when 
to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self- 
same way, 
Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level 
sand. 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 

1  started  once,  or  seem'd  to  start  in  pain, 
Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove 
to  speak, 


A   DREAM    OF    FAIR   WOMEN. 


47 


As  when  a  gr^at  thought  strikes  along 
the  brain, 
And  fluslies  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 
A  cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow, 

That  bore  a  lady  from  a  leaguer'd  town  ; 
And  then,  I  know  not  how. 

All  those  sharp  fiincies,  by  down-lapsing 
thought 
Stream'd  onward,  lost  their  edges, 
and  did  creep 
Roll'd  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth'd, 
and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  raethought  that  I  had  wander'd  far 
In  an  old  wood  :  fresh-wash'd  in 
coolest  dew 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  stedfast  blue. 

Enormouselmtree-bolesdidstoopandlean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  under- 
,    neath 

Their   broad   curved   branches,    fledgei' 
with  clearest  green. 
New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey 
done. 
And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the 
twilight  plain, 
Half-fall'n  across  the  threshold  of  the  .sun, 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air. 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill  ; 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.     Growths  of  jasmine 
turn'd 
Theii'  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to 
tree, 
And  at  the  root  thro'  lush  green  grasses 
burn'd 
The  red  anemone. 

1  knew  the  flowers,  I  knew  the  leaves,  I 
knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid 
dawn 
On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood- walks 
drench'd  in  dew. 
Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 


The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour'd  back  into  my  empty  soul  and 
frame 

The  times  when  I  remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a  clear  under-tone 
Thrill'd  thro'  mine  ears  in  that  un- 
blissful  clime, 
"  Pass  freely  thro'  :  the  wood  is  all  thine 
own, 
Until  the  end  of  time." 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call, 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  stand- 
ing  there  ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall. 
And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  sur- 
prise 
Froze  my  swift  speech  :  she  turiung 
on  my  face 
The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"  I  had  great  beauty  :  ask  thou  not  mv 
name  : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  desti  ny. 
Many  drew  swords  and  died.     Where'er 
I  came 
I  brought  calamity." 

"  No  marvel,  sovereign  lady  :  in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldly 
died, " 

I  answer'd  free  ;  and  turning  I  appeal'd 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks 
averse, 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature 
draws  ; 
"My   youth,"  she  said,    "was  blasted 
with  a  curse  : 
This  woman  was  the  cause. 

' '  I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 
Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes 
and  fears  : 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face  ; 
I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

"Still  strove  to  speak:   my  voice  was 
thick  with  sighs 
As  in  a  dream.  Dimly  I  could  descry 
The    stern    black-bearded    kings    with 
wolfish  eyes. 
Waiting  to  see  nie  die. 


48 


A  DREAM  OF   FAIK  WOMEN. 


"The  high  masts  flicker' d  as  they  lay 

afloat  ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver'd,  and 

the  shore  ; 
The  bright  death  quiver'd  at  the  victim's 

throat ; 
Touch'd  ;  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  adownward  brow  : 
"I  would  the  white   cold   heavy- 
plunging  foam, 
Whirl'd  by  the  wind,  had  roll'd  me  deep 
below, 
Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro'  the  silence 
drear. 
As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a  sleeping 
sea  : 
Sudden  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried,  "Come 
here. 
That  I  may  look  on  thee." 

I  turning  saw,  throned  on  a  flowery  rise, 
One  sitting  on  a  crimson  scarf  un- 
roll'd  ; 
A  queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold 
black  eyes. 
Brow-hound  with  burning  gold. 

She,    flashing    forth   a   haughty   smile, 
began  : 
"  I  govern'd  men  by  change,  ant'  so 
I  sway'd 
All  moods.    'T  is  long  since  I  have  seen 
a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 

"  The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humorebbandflow. 

I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood  : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 

"  Nay  —  yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could 
not  bend 
One  will ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with 
mine  eye 
That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.     Prythee, 
friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

•'The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  1  rode 
sublime 
On  Fortune's  neck  :  we  sat  as  God 
by  God  : 
The  Niluswouldhave  risen  beforchis  time 
And  flooded  at  our  uod. 


"We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep, 
and  lit 
Lamps  which  oiitburn'd  Canopus. 
0  my  life 
In  Eg3'pt  !    0  the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

' '  And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from 
war's  alarms. 

My  Hercules,  my  Eoman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 

Contented  there  to  die  ! 

' '  And  there  he  died  :  and  when  I  heard 
my  name 
Sigh'd  forth- with  life  I  would  not 
brook  my  fear 
Of  the  other  :  with  a  worm  I  balk'd  his 
fame. 
What  else  was  left  ?  look  here  !  " 

(AVith  that  she  torj  her  robe  apart,  and 
half 
The  polish'd  argent  of  licr  breast  to 
sight 
Laid  bare.     Thereto  she  pointed  with  a 
laugh,  , 

Showing  the  aspick's  bite. ) 

"I  died  a  Queen.     The  Eoman  soldiei 
found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 
brows, 
A   name   for  ever  1  • —  lying   robed   and 
crown'd, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse." 

Her  warbling  voice,  a  lyre  of  widest  range 
Sti'uck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down 
and  glance 
From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro'  all 
change 
Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  1  knew  not  for 
delight ; 
Because  with  sudden  motion  from 
the  ground 
She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill'd 
with  light 
The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest 
dai'ts  ; 
As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 
rings 
All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mightT 
hearts 
Of  captains  and  of  kings. 


A  DEEAM   OF   FAIR  WOMEN. 


49 


Slowly  ray  sense  iindazzled.    Then  I  heard 
A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro' 
the  lawn, 
And   singing   clearer   than   the  crested 
bird, 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

"  The  torrent  brooks  of  liallow'd  Israel 
From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late 
and  soon, 
Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro'  the 
dell, 
Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

"The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with 
beams  divine  : 
All  night  the  splinter'd  crags  that  wall 
the  dell 
With  spires  of  silver  shine." 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine 
laves 
The  lawn  by  some  cathedral,  thro' 
the  door 
Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm'd 
and  tied 
To  where  he  stands, — so  stood  I, 
when  that  flow 
Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father's  vow  ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 
A  maiden  pure  ;  as  when  she  went 
along 
From  Mizpeh's  tower'd  gate  with  wel- 
come light, 
With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth  :   "Heaven  heads 
tlie  count  of  crimes 
Witli  that  wild  oath. "    She  render'd 
answer  high : 
'■*  Not  so,  nor  once  alone  ;   a  thousand 
times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 

"Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant, 
whose  root 
Creeps  to   the   garden    water-pipes 
beneath, 
Feeding  the  flower  ;  but  ere  ray  flower  to 
fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death, 


"My  God,  my  land,  my  father -- these 
did  move 
Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave, 
Lower'd  soft  ly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  lo  ve 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 

"  And  I  went  mourning,  'No  fair  Hebrew 
boy 
Shall  smile  away  my  maiden  blame 
among 
The  Hebrew  mothers' — emptied  of  all  joy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

'  Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below. 
Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal- 
bower. 
The  valleys  of  gi'ape-loaded  vines  that 
glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

"The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  us. 
Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his 
den  ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by 
one. 
Or,  from  the  darken'd  glen, 

"Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame. 
And  thunder  on  theeverlastinghills. 
1  heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief 
became 
A  solemn  scorn  of  ill^. 

"When  the  next  moon  was  roll'd  into 
the  sky. 
Strength  came  to  me  that  equall'd 
my  desire. 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

"  It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to 
dwell. 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  fathers 
will ; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell. 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

' '  Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 
Hew'd  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth. "    Here  her  face 
Glow'd,  as  I  look'd  at  her. 


50 


MARGARET. 


She  lock'd  her  lips  :  she  left  me  where 
I  stood  : 
"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sang,  and  past 
afar, 
Thriddingthe  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood, 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively, 

As  one  that  from  a  casement  leans 
his  head. 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  sud- 
denly. 
And  the  old  year  is  d^ad. 

"  Alas  !  alas  !  "  a  low  voice,  full  of  care, 
Murmur'd  beside  me:  "Turn  and 
look  on  me  : 
I   am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call 
fair. 
If  what  I  was  I  be. 

"Would  1  had  been  some  maiden  coarse 
and  poor ! 
0  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the 
light  ! 
Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  fi'om  hope  and 
tnist : 
To  whom  the  Egyjitian  :  "0,  you 
tamely  died  ! 
You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia's  waist, 
and  thrust 
The  dagger  thro'  her  side." 

With  that  .sharp  sound  the  white  dawn's 
creeping  beams, 
Stol'n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the 
mystery 
01   folded   sleep.     The   captain   of  my 
dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden'd  on  the  borders  ol    ^ne 
dark. 
Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her 
last  trance 
Her  murder'd  father's  head,  or  Joan  of 
Arc, 
A  light  of  ancient  France  ; 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 
Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about 
her  king, 


Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy 
breath. 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 
Gold-mines  of  thouglit  to  lift  the 
hidden  orje 
That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I  from 
sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o'er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.     With  what 
dull  pain 
Conipass'd,  how  eagerly  1  sought  to 
strike 
Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again  1 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a  soul  laments,  which  hath  been 
ble.st, 
Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past 
years. 
In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears  ; 

Because  all  words,  tho'  cull'd  with  choicest 
art. 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sweet, 
Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 

Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


MARGARET. 


0  SWEET  pale  Margaret, 
0  rare  jiale  Mai-garet, 
What  lit  youi-  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  ? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 

Of  pensive  thouglit  and  aspect  pale, 

Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower  ? 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood. 

From  all  things  outward  you  have 
won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 
The  very  smile  before  you  speak. 
That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek. 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a  still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 

Like  tlie  tender  amber  round, 
Which  tlie  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  thro'  a  fleecy  night. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEaR. 


51 


you  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  muinuir  of  the  strife, 
But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Vour  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  ahvay 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 

Lull'd  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 


What  can  it  matter,  Margaret, 

AV  hat  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion-heart,  Plantagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro'  his  prison  bars  ? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 
Just  ere  the  falling  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the   true 
heart, 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well  ? 


A  fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 
Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow's  sliade, 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 
You  move  not  in  such  solitudes, 

You  are  not  less  divine. 
But  more  human  in  your  moods. 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline. 
Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch'd  with  a  somewhatdarkerhue. 

And  less  aerially  blue, 

But  ever  trembling  thro'  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 


0  sweet  pale  Margaret, 
0  rare  pale  Margaret, 
Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me 

speak  : 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set, 
The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady. 
And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 
Moving  in  the  leavy  beech. 
Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady, 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 
Or  only  look  across  the  lawn. 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves. 
Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 
Upon  me  thro  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE  BLACKBIRD, 

0  BLACKBIRD  !  sing  me  something  well ; 

While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  thee 
round, 

I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground, 
Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine  ;  the  range  of  lawn  and  park  : 
The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark. 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  spring, 
Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still. 
With  that  cold  dagger  of  thy  bill 

To  fret  the  summer  jenneting. 

A  golden  bill  !  the  silver  tongue, 
Cold  February  loved,  is  dry  : 
Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 

That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young: 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares. 
Now   thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to 

coarse, 
I  hoar  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 

As  wlien  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning  !  he  that  will  not  sing 
While  j'on  sun  pros])ers  in  the  blue. 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 

FU'LL  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow, 
And  the  winter  windsare  wearily  sighing  : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  die  ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadilj^, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still  :  he  doth  not  move  : 
He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 
He  hath  no  other  life  above. 
He  gave  me  a  friend,  and  a  true  true-love. 
And  the  New-year  will  take  'em  away. 
Old  year,  you  must  not  go  ; 
So  long  as  3'ou  have  been  with  us. 
Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 
Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 


52 


TO  J.   S. 


He  froth'd  his  bumpers  to  fhe  brim  ; 
A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  tho'  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 
And  tho'  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I  've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest, 
But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he  '11  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,   my 

'    friend, 

And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold, 
my  friend. 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  !  over  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 
The  cricket  chirps  :  the  light  burns  low  : 
'T  is  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  yoir  die. 

Old  year,  we  '11  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  lace  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 
Alack  !  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes  :  tie  up  his  chin  : 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There 's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my 
friend. 

And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  Iriend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 


TO   J.    S. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 
Or  else  I  had  not  dared  to  flow 

In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Eveja  with  a  verse  your  holy  woe. 


'T  is  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most, 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are 
nursed. 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost : 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 
He  lends  us ;  but,  when  loveisgi'owa 

To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  otf,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.     Alas  ! 

In  grief  I  am  not  all  unlearn' d  ; 
Once  thro'  mine  own  doors  Death  did 
pass ; 

One  went,  mIio  never  hath  return'd. 

He  will  not  smile  —  not  speak  to  me 
Once  more.     Two  years  his  chair  is 
seen 

Empty  before  us.     That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I  had  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer  ;  for  this  star 

Rose  with  you  thro'  a  little  arc 

Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander'd  far 
Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I  knew  your  brother  :  his  mute  dust 
I  honor  and  his  living  worth  : 

A  man  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 

I  have  not  look'd  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soulhathfall'n  asleep. 

Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I  : 
1  will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho' mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew, 
Drawn   from   the   spirit  thro'   the 
brain, 
I  will  not  even  preach  to  you, 

"Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  in  ware* 
pain." 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  loveth  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.     Let  her  will 

Be  done — to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I  will  not  say,  "  God's  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind"; 

For  that  is  not  a  coiiimon  chance 
That  takes  away  a  noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light; 


OF   OLD    SAT   FEEEDOM. 


63 


That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun, 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night. 

Vain  solace  !  Memory  standing  near 
Cast  down  her  eyes,  and  in  her  throat 

Her  voice  seem'd  distant,  and  a  tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I  wrote. 

I  wrote  I  know  not  what.  In  tiiith, 
How  should  I  soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 
Yet  sometiiing  I  did  wish  *.o  say  : 

For  he  too  was  a  friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true 
breast 

Bleedeth  for  both  ;  yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  gi-ief  would  make 
Grief  more.     "T  were  better  1  should 
cease 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in  peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 
Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul, 

While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  increase, 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing    comes    to    thee    new   or 
strange. 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet  ; 

Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease. 
Within  this  region  I  subsist, 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 

And  languish  for  the  pui'ple  seas  ? 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till. 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 
The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or 
foes 

A  man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will  ; 

A  land  of  settled  government, 

A  land  of  just  and  old  renown, 
Where    Freedom    broadens    slowly 
down 

From  precedent  to  precedent  ; 


Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 
But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought, 
The    strength    of    some    diffusive 
thought 

Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a  time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crimej 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Tho  Power  should  make  from  land  toland 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Tho'  every  channel  of  the  State 

Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 
Wild  wind  !     1  seek  a  warmer  sky, 
And  1  will  see  before  1  die 

The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South. 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights, 
The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet ; 

Above  her  .sliook  the  starry  lights  : 
She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 

Self-gather'd  in  her  prophet-mind, 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept   she  down  thro'   town  and 
field 

To  mingle  with  the  human  race^ 
And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal'd 

The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works. 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down. 

Who,  God-like,  gi-asps  the  triple  forks 
And  King-like,  wears  the  crown  : 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years 
Is  in  them.     May  perpetual  youth 

Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears  ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine, 
Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our 
dreams. 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  I 


54 


LOVE   THOU   THY   LAND. 


Love  thou  thy  land,  Avith  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  aud  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 

Thro'  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn'd  round  on  fixed  poles, 
Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends. 
For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends. 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a  hasty  time. 
Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings, 

That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for 
day. 

The'  sitting  gu-t  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds  ; 

But  let  her  herald.  Reverence,  fly 

Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main  -  currents  draw  the 
years  : 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain  : 
But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  : 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  : 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch 
Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  : 
It  grows  to  guerdon  after-daj's  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch-words  overmuch  : 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  ; 

Not  master'd  by  some  modern  term  ; 

Not  swift  nor  slow  to  change,  but  firm  : 
And  in  its  season  bring  the  law  ; 

That  from  Discussion's  lip  may  fall 
With   Life,    that,    workuig  strongly, 

binds  — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds, 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature  also,  cold  and  warm. 
And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 
Thro'  many  agents  making  strong. 

Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  we  rust  in  ease. 


We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees, 
All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  winch  flies. 
And  work,  a  joint  of  state,  tliat  plies 

Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A  saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 
For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A  bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals. 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact- 

Ev'n  now  we  hear  witk  inward  strife 
A  motion  toiling  in  the  gloom  — 
The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 

Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A  slow-develop'd  strength  awaits 
Completion  in  a  jJainful  jcliool ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule. 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  gi'owing  hour. 
But  vagi;e  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark  ; 
And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 

With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join'd. 
Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 

Of  Discord  race  the  rising  wind  ; 

A  Avind  to  puff  your  idol-fires. 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head ; 
To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

0  yet,  if  Nature's  evil  star 

Drive  men  in  manhood,  as  in  youth, 
To  follow  flying  steps  of  Truth 

Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud. 
Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes. 
And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close, 

That  Principles  are  rain'd  in  blood  ; 

Not  j'et  the  wise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro'  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt. 

Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace  j 

Not  less,  tho'  dogs  of  Faction  bay, 
Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword, 

That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  avvi^y  — 


THE   GOOSE. 


55 


Wonld  lov8  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  : 
And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 

Would  strike,  and  tirnily,  and  one  stroke  : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day, 
As  we  bear  blossoms  of  the  dead  ; 
Earn  well  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 

Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay. 


THE   GOOSE. 

I  KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor, 
Hei'  rags  scarce  held  togethc  ; 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door, 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a  goose  upon  his  arm. 
He  utter'd  rhyme  and  reason, 

"  Here,  take thegoose,andkeep you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  season." 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg, 
A  goose  —  't  was  no  great  matter. 

The  goose  let  fall  a  golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the  pelf, 
And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors  ; 

And  bless'd  herself,  and  cursed  herself. 
And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft. 
Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  dolfd, 
The  parson  smirk'd  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid, 
She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder  : 


But  ah  !  the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack'd  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter'd  here,  it  chuckled  there  % 
It  stirr'd  the  old  wife's  mettle  : 

She  shifted  in  her  elbow'-chair. 
And  hurl'd  the  pan  and  kettle. 

"  A  quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  ! " 
Then  wax'd  her  anger  stronger. 

' '  G  o,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her  throat, 
1  will  not  bear  it  longer." 

Then  yelp'd  the  cur,  and  j'awl'd  the  cat ; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer.  . 
The  goose  Hew  this  way  and  flew  that. 

And  fill'd  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  i;pon  the  floor 
They  flounder'd  all  together, 

There  strode  a  stranger  to  the  door. 
And  it  was  windy  weather  : 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm, 
He  utter'd  words  of  scorning  ; 

"So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm, 
It  is  a  stormy  morning." 

The  wild  wind  rang  from  park  and  plain, 
And  round  the  attics  rumbled, 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again. 
And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 
The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up. 
And  a  whirlwind  clear'd  the  larder  ; 

And  while  on  all  .sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 

Quoth  she,  "The  Devil  take  the  goose. 
And  God  forget  the  stranger  1 " 


56 


MORTE   D'ARTIIUR. 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


(published  1842.) 


THE  EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christraas- 
eve,  — 

The  game  of  forfeits  doiie  —  the  girls  all 
kiss'd 

Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away — 

The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard 
Hall, 

The  host,  and  I  sat  round  the  wassail- 
bowl. 

Then  half-way  ebb'd  :  and  there  we  held 
a  talk, 

How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christ- 
mas gone, 

Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd 
games 

Insomeoddnookslikethis  ;  till  I,  tired  out 

With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the 
pond. 

Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the 
outer  edge, 

I  bump'd  the  ice  into  three  several  stars, 

Fell  in  a  doze  ;  and  half-awake  I  heard 

The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps. 

Now  harping  on  the  church-commission- 
ers. 

Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  ; 

Until  1  woke,  and  found  him  settled  down 

Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 

Eight  thro'  the  world,  "at  home  was 
little  left. 

And  none  abroad  :  there  was  no  anchor, 
none. 

To  hold  by."  Francis,  laughing,  clapt 
his  hand 

On  Everard's  shoulder,  with  ' '  1  hold  by 
him." 

"And  1,"  quoth  Everard,  "  by  the  was- 
sail-bowl." 

"Why  yes,"  I  said,  "we  knew  your 
gift  that  way 

At  college  :  but  another  which  you  had, 

I  mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then,) 

What  came  of  that?"  "You  know," 
said  Frank,  "  he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 
books " — 

And  then  to  me  demanding  why  ?  "0, 
sir, 


He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said; 

or  else 
Something  so  said  't  was  nothing —  thai 

a  truth 
Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day : 
God  knows  :  he  has  a  mint  of  reasons:  ask. 
It  pleased  ?HC  well  enough."  "Nay,  nay," 

said  Hall, 
' '  Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times  ? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  JMastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times  ;  and  why  sliould  any 

man 
Remodel  models  ?  these  twelve  books  of 

mine 
Were   faint   Homeric   echoes,    nothing- 
worth. 
Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt." 

"But  I," 
Said  Francis,  "  pick'd  the  eleventh  from 

this  hearth, 
And  have  it :  keep  a  thing,  its  use  will 

come. 
1  hoard  it  as  a  sugar-plum  for  Holmes." 
He  laugh'd,  and  I,  though  sleepy,  like  a 

hoise 
That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick'd  m}'' 

ears  ; 
For  I  remember'd  Everard's  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen  ;  then  at  my 

request 
He  brought  it ;  and  the  poet  little  urged. 
But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement. 
Read,  mouthing  out  hishollowoes  and  aes. 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE   D'ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man. 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him. 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 


MORTE  D  ARTHTm. 


5T 


Lay  a  great  -water,  and  tho  moon  was  full. 
Then  spake  King  Arthui-  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vsre  : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
Thegoodliestfellowsliipoffamousknights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  nevermore,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds. 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  tlie  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  tliis  people  whitdi  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come 

again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will 

be,  be, 
1  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  1  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  E.xcalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  remem- 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful, 
Holding  the  sword,  —  and  how  I  row'tl 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 

king : 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not  :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  iiini  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 
To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro'  the  helm. 
A.  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 
Yet  I  thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 
Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 

word." 
So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 


By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 
There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excali- 
bur, 
Ando'er  him,  drawingit,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the 

hilt  : 
For  all  tlie  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks. 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he 

stood. 
This  way  and  that  dividingthe  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  .seem'd 
Better  to  leave  E.xcalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflag.s. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which 

I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast 

heard?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 

"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  wliom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  : 
"  Tliou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name, 
Not  rendering  true-answer,  as  beseem'd 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  follow'd,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the 

thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 

word." 
Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere, 
Counting    the   dewy   pebbles,    fix'd    in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 
"And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precioiis  thing,  one  worthy  note, 


58 


MORTE   d'AETHUR. 


"  An  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  tTie  bosom  of  tne  lake 
Clothed  in  white  samite." 


Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the  earth, 

Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 
many  men. 

What  good  .should  follow  this,  if  this  were 
done  ? 

What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  dis- 
obey, 

Seeing  obedience  is  tk  b&a&  of  rule. 

Were  it  well  tc  s5:-e7tlie:  ■.,  ifakingdemand 

An  act  unprofttable,  against  himself  ? 


The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftei  time,  but  empty  breatn 
And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this 

kept, 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings. 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joustof  arms, 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 


MORTE   D'AETHUR. 


59 


Wronght  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  af- 

tertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 
So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  con- 
ceit, 
A.nd  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 

heavily  : 
**  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast 

heard  ? " 

Andanswer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"  1  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 

And  the  long  ripple  washinginthe  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthui,  nm'^h 

in  wrath  : 
"Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !  Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

tliou  art, 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  mykniglits. 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 

hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
1  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 
Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  andran, 
And,  leaping  down   the  ridg(;s  lightly, 

plunged 
4mong  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword. 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.     The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon. 
And  flashing  roundand  round,  and  whirl'd 

in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 


But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 

ful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  ;.nd  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 
Then   spoke    King  Arthur,    drawing 
thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out  :  what  is  it  thou  hast  .heard, 
or  seen  ? " 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 

gems 
Sliould  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  sec,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 
Not  tho'  1  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheel- 
ing him  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful. 
That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere." 
Andanswer  made  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing hard  : 
"My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't is  time  that  I 

were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 

weight, 
Aiid  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 
die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 
rose. 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro'  his  tears. 
And  would  have  sjioken,  but  he  found 

not  vords, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one 

knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 

hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 
tombs. 
But,  as  he  walk'd.  King  Arthur  panted 
hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his 
bed 


60 


MOETE   D  ARTHUR. 


When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering  and   murmuring  at  his  ear, 

"  Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walk'd, 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like 

a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 
Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge. 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms 
Black-stoled,  black -hooded,  like  a  dream 

■ —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  —  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

world. 
Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in 

the  barge," 
And  to  the  barge  they  came.    There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And   loosed  the   shatter'd   casque,  and 

chafed  his  hands. 
And  call'd  him  by-his  name,  complaining 

loud, 
Anddroppingbitter  tears  agninsthisbrow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :  for  all  his  face 

was  white 


And    colorless,    and   like   the   wither'd 

moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  drops 
Of  onset ;   and  the  light   and   lustrous 

curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parch'd 

with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the   knightly  growth   that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament. 
Shot   thro'   the   lists   et  Canielot,  and 

charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 
Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere, 
' '  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I 

go? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are 

dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  l(!d 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  round  table  is  dis- 
solved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  1,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among  new  men,  strange   faces,  other 

minds." 
And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 

barge  : 
' '  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways. 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself :  what  comfort  is  in  me  I 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
]\Iay  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but 

thou, 
If  thou  slKJuldst  never  see  my  face  again. 


MORTE   D'AKTHUR. 


61 


"  All  the  decks  were  dense  witli  stately  forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold." 


Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are  wrought 

by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 

goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 


If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  fcr  themselves  and  those  who  call 

them  friend  ? 
For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 

God. 
But  now  farewell     1  am  going  a  long 

way 


62 


THE   GAEDENEK'S   DAUGHTER  ;   OR,   THE   PICTURES. 


With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indoed  I  go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep  -  meadow'd,    happy,  fair   with  or- 
chard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 
mer sea,        ^ 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  gi-ievous 
wound." 
So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Euflflcs  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 

the  flood 
With   swarthy   webs.     Long   stood  Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 

of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light, 

that  long 
Had   wink'd  and   threaten'd   darkness, 

flared  and  fell  : 
At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with 

sound. 
And     waked     M'ith     silence,     grunted 

"  Good  !  "  but  we 
Sat  rapt :  it  was  the  tone  with  which  he 

read  — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touclies  here  and 

there 
Redeem'd  it  from  the  charge  of  nothing- 
ness — 
Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his 

work  ; 
I  know  not :  but  we  sitting,  as  I  said. 
The  cock  crew  loud  ;  as  at  that  time  of 

year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn  : 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a  man  ill- 
used, 
"'  There  now  —  that 's  nothing  !  "  drew 

a  little  back. 
And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smouldcr'd 

log, 
That  sent  a  blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue  ; 
And  so  to  bed  ;  where  yet  in  sleep  I  seem'd 
To  sail  with  Arthurunder  loomingshores, 
Point  after  point ;  till  on  to  dawn,  when 

dreams 


Begin  to  feel  the  tnith  and  stir  of  day, 
To  me,  methought,  who  waited  with  & 

crowd, 
There  came  a  bark  that,  blowing  forward, 

bore 
King  Arthur,  like  a  modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port ;  and  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Arthur  is  come  again  :  he  cannot  die." 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  be- 
hind 
Repeated —  "Come  again,  and  thrice  as 

fair"  ; 
And,    further   inland,  voices   echoed  — 

"  Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be 

no  more." 
At  this  a  hundred  bells  began  to  peal. 
That  with  the  sound  I  woke,  and  heard 

indeed 
The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christ- 
mas morn. 


THE     GARDENER'S     DAUGHTER ; 
OR,  THE  PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day, 
When  I  and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  Gardener's  Daughter ;  I  and  he. 
Brothers  in  Art ;  a  friendship  so  complete 
Portion'd  in  halves  between  us,  that  we 

grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  Mhere  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and 

draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired 
A  certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 
A  miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ'd  up  and  closed  in  little ;  — Juliet, 

she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit,  —  0,  she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless 

moons, 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing  !     Know  you 

not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love, 
To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire   for  life  ?    but  Eustace  painted 

her. 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then, 
"  When  will  ?/ozi  paint  like  this  ?  "  and  I 

replied, 
(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in 

lest,) 


THE   GARDENER  S    DAUGHTER  ;   OR,   THE   PICTURES. 


63 


"  'T  is  not  your  work,  but  Love's.     Love, 

unperceived, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all. 
Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made 

those  eyes 
Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that 

hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of 

]\Iarch." 
And  Juliet  answer'd  laughiny,  "  Go  and 

see 
The  Gardener's  daughter  :  trust  me,  aftci 

that, 
You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  master- 
piece." 
And  xip  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we 

went. 
Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,   nor 

quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I  love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells  ; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you 

hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock  ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow  broad 

stream. 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the 

oar. 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a  bridge 
Crown'd  with  the  minster-towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-udder'd 

kine, 
And  all  about  the  large  lime  feather^  low, 
The  lime  a  summer  home  of  murmurous 

wings. 
In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  lier- 

self, 
Grew,  seldom  seen  :  not  less  among  us 

lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.     Who  had  not 

heard 
Of     Eose,    the     Gardener's    daughter? 

Where  was  he, 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief, 
That,  having  seen,  forgot  ?  The  conmiou 

mouth. 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of 

her 
Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  world. 
And  if  I  said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images. 


Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I  look'd  upon  her,  when  1  heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a  jirophet  to  my  lieart. 
And  told  me  I  should  love.     A  crowd  of 

hopes. 
That    sought   to    sow    themselves   like 

winged  seeds. 
Born  out  of  everything  I  heard  and  saw, 
Flutter'd  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 
And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of 

balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of    Life    delicious,    and    all    kinds   of 

tliought, 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the 

dream 
Dream'd  by  a  happy  man,  when  the  dark 

East, 
Unseen,    is   brightening    to    his    bridal 

morn. 
And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
For  ever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see   her.     AH   the  land   in    flowery 

squares, 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt   of  the   coming  summer,  as  one 

large  cloud 
Drew  downward  :  but  all  else  of  Heaveix 

was  pure 
Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to 

verge. 
And  ^lay  with  me  from  head  to  heel. 

And  now, 
As  tho'  't  were  yesterday,  as  tho'  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all 

its  sound, 
(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life 

of  these,) 
Rings  in  mine  ears.     The  steer  forgot  to 

graze, 
And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the  path- 
way, stood. 
Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field. 
And  lowing  to  Ids  fellows.     From  the 

woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 
Tlie  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes 

for  joy. 
But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near'd 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left 

and  right, 
Tlie  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills  ; 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm  ; 
The  redcap  whistled ;  and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho'  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 
And  Eustace  turn'd,  and  smiling  said 

to  me. 


64 


THE   GAEDENEE'S   DAUGHTEE  ;   OE,   THE   PICTUEES. 


"  Hear  how  the  bushes  echo  !  by  my  life, 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.    Think 

you  they  sing 
Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 
Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing  ? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for 

what  they  have  ? " 
And  I  made  answer,  "  Were  there  noth- 
ing else 
For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  onlj' 

love, 
That  only  love  were  cause  enough   for 

praise." 
Lightly  he  laugh'd,  as  one  that  read 

my  thought. 
And  on  we  went ;  but  ere  an  hour  had 

pass'd. 
We  reaeh'd  a  meadow  slanting  to  the 

Korth  ; 
Down  which  a  well-worn  pathway  courted 

us 
To  one  green  wicket  in  a  privet  hedge  ; 
This,  yielding,  gave  into  a  gi-assy  walk 
Thi'o'     crowded    lilac  -  ambush    trimly 

pruned  ; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  per- 
fume, blew 
Beyond  us,  as  we  enter'd  in  the  cool. 
The  garden  stretches  southward.    In  the 

midst 
A  cedar  spread  his  dark -green  layers  of 

shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  momently 
The    twinkling    laurel  scatter'd   silver 

lights. 
"Eustace,"  I  said,  "this  wonder  keeps 

the  house." 
He  nodded,  but  a  moment  afterwards 
He  cried,    "Look!    look!"     Befoi'e  he 

ceased  I  turn'd, 
And,  ere  a  star  can  wink,  beheld  her  there. 
For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern 

rose, 
That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night's  gale 

had  caught. 
And  blown  aci'oss  the  walk.     One  aim 

aloft  — 
Gowii'd  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the 

shape  — 
Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 
A  single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour'd  on  one  side :  the  shadow  of  the 

flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist  — 
Ah,  happy  shade  -—  and  still  went  waver- 
ing down, 


But,  ere  it  touch'd  a  foot,  that  might  have 

danced 
The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipl^ 
And  mix'd  with  shadows  of  the  common 

ground  ! 
But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and 

sunn'd 
Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe  bloom. 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  hei 

lips. 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a 

breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.     Half  light,  haK 

shade. 
She  stood,  a  sight  to  make  an  old  man 

young. 
So  rapt,  we  near'd  the  house  ;  but  she, 

a  Rose 
In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragi-ant  toil, 
Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  ten- 
dance turn'd 
Into  the  world  without ;  tillcloseathand, 
And  almost  ere  I  knew  mine  own  intent, 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that 

air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her  ; 

"Ah,  one  rose. 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fail  fingers 

cull'd, 
Were  worth  a  hundred  kisses  press'd  on 

lips 
Less  exrpiisite  than  thine." 

She  look'd  :  but  all 
Suffused   with   blushes  —  neither   self- 

possess'd 
Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and 

that, 
Di^nded  in  a  graceful  quiet  —  paused. 
And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turn- 
ing, wound 
Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr'd  her 

lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho'  no  answer 

came. 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it, 
And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue- 
like. 
In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 
Saw  her  no  more,  altho'  I  linger'd  there 
Till  every  daisy  slejit,  and  Love's  white 

star 
Beam'd  thro'  the  thicken'd  cedar  in  the 

dusk. 
So  home  we  went,  and  all  the  livelong 

way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 


THE  GARDENER  S   DAUGHTER  ;   OR,   THE   PICTURES. 


65 


"New,"  said  he,    "will  you  climb  the 

to],  of  Art. 
You  cannot  fail  but  work  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titiauic  Flora.     Will  you  match 
My  Juliet  ?  you,  not  you,  — the  Master, 

Love, 
A  more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all." 

So  home  I  went,  but  could  not  sleep 

for  joy, 
Readiiigher  perfect  features  in  the  gloom, 
Kissing  the  lose  she  gave  me  o'er  and 

o'er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving  —  such  a  noise  of 

life 
Swarm'd  in  the  golden  present,  such  a 

voice 
Call'd  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and 

such 
A  length  of  bright  horizon  rimm'd  the 

dark. 
And  all  that  night  1  heard  the  watchman 

peal 
The  sliding  season  :  all  that  night  I  heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy 

hours. 
The  drowsy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O'er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings. 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 
Love  at  first  sight,  tirst-born,  and  heir 

to  all, 
Made   this   night   thiis.     Henceforward 

squall  nor  storm 
Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she 

dwelt. 
Light  pretexts  drew  me  :  sometimes  a 

Dutch  love 
For  tulips  ;  then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk. 
To  grace  my  city-rooms ;  or  fruits  and 

cream 
Served  in  the  weeping  elm  ;  and  more  and 

more 
A  word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek  ; 
A  thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy 

dew  ; 
Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year. 
One   after  one,  thro'   that  still   garden 

■   pass'd  : 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  iuto  light,  and  died  into  the  shade ; 
And  each  in  passing  touch'd  with  some 

new  grace 
Or  seem'd  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by 

day. 


Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known. 
Her  beauty  grew  ;  till  Autumn  brought 

an  hour 
For  Eustace,  when  1  heard  his  deep  '^  I 

will," 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to 

hold 
From  thence  thio'  all  the  worlds  :  but  I 

rose  up 
Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark 

eyes 
Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I  reach'd 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing 

there. 
There   sat  we   down   upon   a  garden 

mound. 
Two  mutually  enfolded  ;  Love,  the  third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
En  wound  us  both  ;  and  over  many  a  range 
Of  wani)i"  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a  haz\'  glimmer  of  the  west, 
Keveal'd  their  shining  windows  :   from 

them  clash'd 
The  bells  ;  we  listen'd  ;  with  the  time  we 

-play'd  ; 
We  spoke  of  other  things  ;  we  coursed 

about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and 

near. 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling 

round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 
Then,  in  that  time  and  place,  I  spoke 

to  her. 
Requiring,  tho'  1  knew  it  was  mine  own, 
Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  1  took  to  hear, 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 
A  wOiTian'sheart,  the  heart  of  her  1  loved  ; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answer'd 

me. 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words. 
More  musical  tlian  ever  came  in  one. 
The  silver  fragments  of  a  broken  voice. 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering,  "  I  an: 

thine." 
Shall  I  cease  here  ?    Is  this  enough  tc 

say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes. 
By  its  own  energy  fulfiU'd  itself. 
Merged  in  completion  ?     Would  you  learn 

at  full 
How  passion   rose   thro'  circumstantial 

grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop'd  ?  and  indeed 
I  had  not  stayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 
But  while  1  mused  came  Memory  with 

sad  e>es. 


66 


DORA. 


Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth  ; 

And  while  I  mused,  Love  with  knit  brows 
went  by. 

And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips, 

Andspake,  "Be  wise  :  not  easily  forgiven 

Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors 
that  bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart. 

Let  in  the  day."     Here,  then,  my  words 
have  end. 
Yet  might  I  tell  of  meetings,  of  fare- 
wells — 

Of  that  which  came  between,  more  sweet 
than  each, 

In  whispers,  likethe  whispers  of  the  leaves 

That  tremble  round  a  nightingale  —  in 
sighs 

Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex'd  for  utter- 
ance. 

Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.     Might  I 
not  tell 

Of    difference,    reconcilement,    pledges 
given. 

And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need 
of  vows. 

And  kisses,  where  the  heart  on  one  wild 
leap 

Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 

The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces 
pale 

Sow'd  ail  their  mystic  gulfs  with  fleeting 
stars  ; 

Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent- 
lit, 

Bpi'ead   the  light  haze  along  the  river- 
shores. 

And  in  the  hollows  ;  or  as  once  we  met 

Unheedful,  tho'  beneath  a  whispering  rain 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sigh- 
ing wind. 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 
But  this  whole  hour  your  eyes  have 
been  intent 

On  that  veil'd  picture  —  veil'd,  for  what 
it  liolds 

May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 

This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.     Raise 
thy  soul  ; 

Make  tliine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes  : 
the  time 

Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 

As  I  beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 

My  first,  last  love  ;  the  idol  of  my  youth, 

The  darling  of  my  manh  jod,  and,  alas  ! 

Now  the  most  blessed-  memory  of  mine 


DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.    William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at 

them. 
And  often  thought,  "  I  '11  make  them  man 

and  wife." 
Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearn'd  towards  AVilliam  ;  but  the 

youth,  because 
He  had  been  always  withherin  the  housej 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
when   Allan   call'd  his  son,  and  said, 

"  My  son  : 
I  married  late,  but  I  wo-4ld  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die  : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora  :  she  is  well 
To  look  to  :  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter  :  he  and  1 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he 

died 
In  foreign  lands  ;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daugliter  Dora  :   take  her  for  your 

wife  ; 
For  1  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night 

and  day, 
For  many  years. "    But  William  answer'd 

short : 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora  ;  by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old 

man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands, 

and  said  : 
"You  will  not,  toy  !  you  dare  to  answer 

thus ! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law. 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.   Look  to  it ; 
Consider,    William  :    take   a   month  to 

think. 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall 

pack. 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again." 
But    William  answer'd  madly;  bit   his 

lips. 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  look'd  at 

her 
The  less  he  liked  her  ;  and  his  ways  were 

harsh  ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's 

house. 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the 

fields ; 


DORA. 


07 


And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and 

wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 
Then,  when    the  bells   were  ringing, 

Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said  :  "  My  girl,  I  love  you 

well ; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  hio 

wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is 

law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She 

thought, 
"  It  cannot  be  :   my  uncle's  mind  will 

change ! " 
And  da3's  went  on,  and  there  was  born 

a  l)oy 
To  William  ;  thendistressescameonhim; 
And  day  by  daj-hepass'dhis  father's  gate. 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him 

not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could 

save. 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they 

know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     JIary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and 

thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and 

said  : 
"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now. 
And  I  havesiun'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 
But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that  'sgone. 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he 

chose. 
And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you  : 
You  know  there  lias  not  been  for  these 

five  yeare 
So  full  a  harvest  :  let  me  take  the  boy. 
And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 
Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart 

is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  fee  the  boj% 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's 

gone." 
And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her 

way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies 

grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
Andsjiiedhernot  ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 


And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to 

him. 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her  ;  and  the  reapers 

reap'd. 
And  thesun  fell,  andall  theland  was  dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose 

and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the 

mound  ; 
And  madea  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  auel  tied  it  round  his 

"hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Tlien  when  the  farmer  pass'd  intothefield 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 
And  came  and  said  :   "  Where  were  you 

yesterday  ? 
Whose  child   is   that  ?    What  are  you 

doing  here  ?" 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
And  answer'd  softly,  "  This  is  William's 

child  ! " 
"And  did  1  not,"  .said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  again  : 
' '  Do  witli  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the 

child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that  '9 

gone  ! " 
And  Allan  said,  "I  see  it  is  a  trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 
I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  \ 
You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you 

dared 
To  slight  it.     Well  —  for  I  will  take  the 

boy  ; 
Butgo  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried 

aloud 
And    struggled   hard.     The   wreath   of 

flowers  fell 
At  Dora'sfeet.   She bow'duponher hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the 

field, 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bow'd  down 

her  head. 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She 

bow'd  down 
And  wept   in   secret  ;   and  the  reapers 

reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was 

dark. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and 

stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     !Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in 

praise 


68 


AUDLEY   COURT. 


To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widow- 
hood. 
And  Dora  said,  "My  nncle  took  the  boy  ; 
But,  Mary,  letmelive  and  work  with  you  : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary,  "This  shall  never 

be. 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on 

thyself  : 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the 

hoy. 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to 

slight 
His  mother  ;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go. 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bi'ing  him 

home  ; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back  : 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again. 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one 

house, 
And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he 

grows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach' d  the 

farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch  :  they  peep'd, 

and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's 

knees. 
Who  thi-ust  lum  in  the  hollows  of  hisarm. 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the 

cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loved  him  :  and  the  lad 

stretch' d  out 
And   babbled  for  the  golden  seal,   that 

h\ing 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the 

fire. 
Then  they  came  in  :  but  when  the  boy 

beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her  : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said  : 
"0  Father  !  — if  you  let  me  call  you 

so  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or   William,  or  this  child  ;  but  now  I 

come 
For  Dora  :  take  her  back  ;  she  loves  you 

well. 

0  Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at 

peace 
With  all  men  ;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he 

said. 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me  — 

1  had  been  a  patient"  wife  :  but.  Sir,  he 

.said 


That  he  was  wTong  to  cross  his  father 

thus  : 
'  God  bless  him  ! '  he  said,  '  and  may  he 

never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro'  ! '     Then 

he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd  —  unhappy  that   I 

am  ! 
But  now.  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for 

you 
W^ill  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn 

to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;  and  takeDora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.    There  was  silence  in  the  room  ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in 

sobs  :  — 
"I  have  been  to  blame  — to  blame. 

I  have  kill'd  my  son. 
I  have  kill'd  him  —  but  I  loved  Mm  — 

my  dear  son. 
May  God  forgive  me  !  —  1  have  been  to 

blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many 

times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  re- 
morse ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred- 
fold ; 
And    for    three   hours   he  sobb'd   o'er 

Willinm's  child, 
Thinking  of  "William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  togetlier  ;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate  ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

"  The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and 

not  a  room 
For  love  or  money.     Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court." 

I  spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Humm'd  like  a  hive  all  round  the  narrow 

quay. 
To  Francis,  with  a  basket  on  his  arm, 
To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat. 
And  breathing  of  the  sea.      "With  all 

my  heart," 
Said  Francis.     Then  we  shculder'd  thro' 

the  swarm. 


AUDLEY   COURT. 


69 


"  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame.    I  have  kill'd  my  son, 
I  have  kill'd  him  —  but  I  loved  him  —  my  dear  son." 


And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 

To  where  the  bay  I'uns  up  its  late.st  horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that   faintly 

lipp'd 
The  fiat  red  granite  ;  so  by  many  a  sweeji 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we 

reach' d 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass'd  thro' 

all 
The  pillar'd  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores, 
And  cross'd  the  garden  to  the  gardener's 

lodge, 
Witn  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its 

walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 
There,  on  a.slope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A  damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse 

and  hound, 
Brought  out  a  dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of 

home. 
And,  half-cut-dowai,  a  pasty  costly-made, 


Where  f[uail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret 

lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied  ;  last,  with  these, 
A  flask  of  cider  from  his  father's  vats, 
Prime,   which   I  knew  ;    and  so  we  sat 

and  eat 
And  talk'd  old  mattersover;  who  was  dead. 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and  how 
The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the 

hall: 
Then  touch'd  upon  the  game,  how  scarce 

it  was 
This  season  ;  glancing  thence,  discuss'd 

the  farm. 
The  fourfield  system,  and  the  price  of 

gT'ain  ; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where 

we  split, 
And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces  ;  till  he  laugh'd  aloud  ; 


70 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin 

hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and 

sang  — 
"  Oh  !  who  would  fight  and  march  and 

countermarch, 
Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a  battle-field, 
And  shovell'd  up  into  a  blood}'  trench 
Where  no  one  knows  ?  but  let  me  live 

my  life. 
"Oh  '.  who  would  cast  and  balance  at 

a  desk, 
Perch'd  like  a  crow  upon  a  three-legg'd 

stool. 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  joints 
Are  full  of  chalk  ?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 
""Who  'd  serve   the   state?  for  if  I 

carved  my  name 
Upon  the  clifis  that  guard  my  native  land, 
I  might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the  sands ; 
The  sea  wastes  all :  but  let  me  live  my 

life. 
"Oh!  who  would  love?     I  woo'd  a 

woman  once, 

But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind, 

And  ail  my  heart  turn'd  from  her,  asa  thorn 

Turns  from  the  sea ;  but  let  me  live  my  life. " 

He  sang  his  song,  and  I  replied  with 

mine  : 
I  found  it  in  a  volume,  all  of  songs, 
Knock'd  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir  Rob- 
ert's pride. 
His  books — the  more  the  pity,  .«oIsai('  — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  — 

and  this  — 
I  set  the  words,  and  added  names  I  knew. 
•'  Sleep,    Ellen    Aubrey,    sleep,    and 

dream  of  me  : 
Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister's  arm, 
And  slee]iing,  haply  dream  her  arm  is 

mine. 
"  Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia's  arm  ; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou, 
For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 
"Sleep,    breathing  health  and  peace 

upon  her  breast  : 
Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against 

her  lip  : 

1  go  to-night  :  I  come  to-morrow  mom. 

"I  go,  but  I  return  :  1  would  I  were 

The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream. 

Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and   dream 

of  me." 
So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis  Hale, 
The  farmer's  son,  who  lived  across  thebay, 
My  friend  ;  and  I,  that  having  where- 
withal. 


And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life 
A  rolling  stone  of  here  and  everywhere, 
Did  what  I  would ;  but  ere  the  night  we 

rose 
And   saunter'd   home  beneath  a  moon, 

that,  just 
In  crescent,  dimly  rain'd  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach'd 
The  limit  of  the  hills  ;  and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  lock  upon  the  glooming 

q"ay. 
The  town  was  hush'd  beneath  us  :  lower 

down 
The  bay  was  oily  calm  ;  the  harbor-buoy 
Sole  .star  of  phosphorescence  in  the  calm, 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 

John.  I  'm glad  I  Malk'd.  How  fresh 
the  meadows  look 
Above  the  river,  and,  but  a  month  ago, 
The  Avhole  hillside  Mas  redder  than  a  fox. 
Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway  joins 
The  turnpike  ? 

James.  Yes. 

John.     And  ivhen  does  this  come  by? 
James.  The  mail  ?   At  one  o'clock. 
John.  What  is  it  now? 

James.  A  quarter  to. 
John.  Whose  house  is  that  I  see  ? 

No,  not  the  County  ilember's  with  the 

vane  : 
Up  higher  Avith  the  yewtreebyit,  and  half 
A  score  of  gables. 

James.       That  ?   Sir  Edward  Head's : 

But  he  's  abroad  :   the  place  is  to  be  sold. 

John.  0,  his.     He  was  not  broken. 

James.  No,  sir,  he, 

Vex'd  with  a  morbid  devil  in  his  blood 

That  veil'd  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid 

his  face 
From  all   men,    and   commercing  with 

himself, 
He  lo.st  the  sense  that  handles  daily  life  - 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less  - 
And  sick  of  home  went  overseasfor  change. 
John.   And  whither? 
James.   Nay,  who  knows  ?  he  's  here 
and  there. 
But  let  him  go  ;  his  devil  goes  with  him, 
As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawss, 
John.   What  's  that  ? 
James.  You  saw  the  man  —  on  Mon- 
day, was  it  ?  — 


WALKING  TO   THE   MAIL. 


n 


There  by  the  hiimpback'd  v\  illow  ;  half 

stands  up 
And  bristles  ;  half  has  fall'n  and  made  a 

bridge  ; 
And  there  he  caught  the  younker  tick- 
ling trout  — 
Caught  in  flagrante  —  what  's  the  Latin 

word?  — 
Delicto :  but  his  house,  for  so  they  say, 
Washaunted  with  ajolly  ghost,  thatshook 
The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at 

doors, 
And  rummaged  like  a  rat :  no  servant 

stay'd  : 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and 

chairs, 
And  all  his  household  stuff ;  and  with 

his  boy 
Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt. 
Sets  out,  and  meets  a  friend  who  hails 

him,  "What  ! 
You  're  Hitting  !  "  "  Yes,  we 're  flitting," 

says  the  ghost, 
(For  they  had  pack'd  the  tiling  among 

the  beds,) 
"0  well,"  says  he,  "you  flitting  with 

us  too  — 
Jack,  turn  the  horses'  heads  and  home 

again." 
Joh7i.  He  left  his  wife  behind  ;  for  so  I 

heard. 
James.  He  left  her,  yes.     I  met  my 

lady  once : 
A  woman  like  a  butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 
John.   0    yet    but    I    remember,    ten 

years  back  — 
'T  is  now  at  least  ten  years  —  and  then 

she  was  — 
You  could  not  light  upon  a  sweeter  thing : 
A  body  slight  and  round,   and  like  a 

pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a  hand,  a  foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a  .skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it 

flowers. 
James.  Ay,    ay,    the   blossom    fades, 

and  they  that  leved 
At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and 

dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  cottager. 
Out  of  her  sphere.   What  betwixt  shame 

and  pride. 
New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her, 

she  sour.'d 
To  what  she  is  :  a  nature  never  kind  ' 
Like  men,    like   manners :  like   breeds 

like,  they  say. 


Kind  nature  is  the  best :  those  manners 

next 
That  fit  us  like  a  nature  second-hand  ; 
Which   are  indeed  the  manners  of  tha 

great. 
John.   But  I  had  heard  it  was  this  biU 

that  past, 
And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove 

him  hence. 
James.  That  was  the  last  drop  in  the 

cup  of  gall. 
I  once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff 

brought 
A  Chartist  pike.     You  should  have  seen 

him  wince 
As  from  a  venomous  thing  :  he  thought 

himself 
A  mark  for  all,  and   shudder'd,  lest  a 

cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his 

nice  eyes 
Should   see  the  raw  mechanic's  bloody 

thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon'd  chairs  ;  but,  sir, 

you  know 
That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the 

world  — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have  : 

and  still 
The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age 

to  age 
With  much  the  same  result.     Now  I  my- 
self, 
A  Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a  boy 
Destructive,   when    I    had   not   what   I 

would. 
I  was  at  school  — ■  a  college  in  the  South  : 
There  lived  a  flayflint  near  ;  we  stole  his 

fruit, 
His  hens,  his  eggs  ;  but  there  waslawfoi 

us; 
AVe  paid  in  person.     He  had  a  sow,  sir. 

She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  content 
Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun  anc 

mud. 
By  night  we  dragg'd  her  to  the  coUeg 

tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkscrew 

stair 
With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the  groan- 
ing sow. 
And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she 

pigg'd. 
Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mothei 

sow. 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved, 


72 


EDWIN   MORRIS;   OR,   THE   LAKE. 


As  one  by  one  we  took  them  —  bnt  for 

this  — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world  — 
Might  have  been  happy  :  but  what  lot  is 

pure  ? 
We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine. 
And  so  return'd  unfarrow'd  to  her  sty. 
John.  They  found  you  out  ? 
James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  —  after  all  — 

What  know  we  of  the  seei'et  of  a  man  ? 
His  nerves  were  wrong.     What  ails  us, 

who  are  sound. 
That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the 

world, 
Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks 

or  whites. 
As  ruthless  as  a  baby  with  a  worm, 
As  cruel  as  a  schoolboy  ere  he  grows 
To  Pity  —  more  from  ignorance  than  will. 
But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I  fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail  :  and  here 

it  comes 
With  five  at  top  :  asquaint  a  four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see  —  three  pyebaids  and  a 

roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS  ;  OR,  THE  LAKE. 

O  ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake, 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of  a 

year. 
My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life  !     I  was  a  sketcher  then  : 
See  here,  my  doing  :  curves  of  mountain, 

bridge, 
Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a  castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a 

rock. 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a  rock  : 
And  here,  new-comers  in  nn  ancient  hold, 
New-comers  from  the  JNIersey,  million- 

naires, 
Herelived  the  Hills — aTudor-chiraneyed 

bulk 
Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 

O  me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward  Bull 
The  curate  ;  he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 
names, 
Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss  and 
fern. 


Who  forged  a  thousand  theories  of  the 

rocks. 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  to 

swim. 
Who  read  me  ihymes  elaborately  good. 
His  own  —  I  call'd  him  Crichton,  far  he 

seem'd 
All-perfect,  finish'd  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I  ask'd  him  of  his  early  life, 
Andhisfirstpassion  ;  andheanswer'dme; 
And  well  his  words  became  him  :  was  he 

not 
A  full-cell'd  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all   flowers  ?     Poet-like   he 

spoke. 

"My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I  ; 
But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that, 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love 

for  her. 
My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her, 
Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew, 
Twin -sisters  differently  beautiful. 
To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the  sun, 
And  some  full  music  seem'd  to  move  and 

change 
With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the  ilark. 
And  either  twilight  and  the  day  between ; 
For  daily  hope  fulfill'd,  to  rise  again 
Revolving   toward   fulfilment,    made  it 

sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleeji,  to   wake,  to 

breathe." 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he 

spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 

Bull, 
"  I  take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for 

the  man. 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world. 
A  pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 
To  have  a  dame  indoors,  that  trims  us  up. 
And   keeps  us  tight ;  but  these   unreal 

waj^s 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and  indeed 
Worn  threadbare,     ilan  is  made  of  solid 

stuff. 
1  say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
And    for   the  good  and  increase  of  the 

world." 

"  Parson,"  said  I,  "  you  pitch  the  pipe 
too  low  : 
But  I  have  sudden  touches,  and  can  run 
!My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his  : 
Tho'  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  HiU, 


EDWIN   MORRIS ;   OR,   THE   LAKE. 


78 


I  do  not  hear  the  bells  upon  my  cap, 
I  scarce  liave  other  music  :  yet  say  ou. 
What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a 

dream  ?" 
1  ask'd  him  half-sardouically. 

"Give? 
Give  all  thouart,"  heanswer'd,  andalight 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  hisswarthy  cheek ; 
"  1  would  liave  hid  herneedleinmy  heart, 
To  save  her  little  linger  from  a  scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin  :  my  ears  could 

hear 
Her  lightest  breaths  :  her  least  remark 

was  worth 
The  experience  of  the  wise.     I  went  and 

came  ; 
Her  voice  fled  always  thro'  the  summer 

land  ; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.     Thrice-happy 

days  ! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when 

we  met. 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no  more." 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I  a  beast 
To  take  them  as  I  did  ?  but  something 

jarr'd  ; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely  ;  that  there 

seem'd 
A   touch  of  sometliing  false,  some  self- 
conceit, 
Or  over-smoothness  :  howsoe'er  it  was, 
He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  1  said  ; 

"Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself 

alone 
Of  all  men  happy.     Shall  not  Love  to  me, 
As  in  the  Latin  song  1  learnt  at  school, 
Sneeze  out  a  full  God-bless-you  right  and 

left? 
But  you  can  talk  :  yours  is  a  kindly  vein : 
1  have,  I  think,  —  Heaven  knows  —  as 

much  within  ; 
Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a  thought 

or  two. 
That  like  a  purple  beech  among  the  greens 
Looks  out  of  place  :  't  is  from  no  want  in 

her : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust. 
Or  something  of  a  wayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.     Time   will  set  me 

right." 

So   spoke  1  knowing  not  the  things 
ihat  were. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward 
Bull: 


"God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase   of  the 

world." 
And  1  and  Edwin  laugh'd  ;  and  now  we 

paused 
About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to  heai 
The   soft   wind  blowing  over  meadowy 

holms 
And  alders,  garden-isles ;  and  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  1  and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake, 
Delighted    with   the  freshness   and  the 

sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their 

crags. 
My  suit  had  wither' d,  nipt  to  death  by  him 
That  was  a  God,  and  is  a  lawyer's  clerk, 
The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 
'T  is  true,  we  met ;  one  hour  1  had,  no  more : 
She  sent  a  note,  the  seal  an  Elle  vous  suit, 
Theclose  "  YourLetty,  onlyyours"  ;  and 

this 
Thrice  underscored.      The  friendly  mist 

of  morn 
Clung  to  the  lake.     I  boated  over,  ran 
ily  craftaground,  and  heard  with  beating 

heart 
The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving 

keel  ; 
And  out  I  stept,  and  up  I  crept :  she  moved. 
Like    Proserpine    in    Enna,    gathering 

flowers  : 
Then  low  and  sweet  I  whistled  thrice  ; 

and  she, 
She  tui'n'd,  we  closed,  we  kiss'd,  swore 

faith,  I  breathed 
In  some  new  planet ;  a  silent  cousin  stole 
Upon  us  and  departed :  "Leave,  "she  cried, 
"  0  leave  me  !  "    "Never,  dearest,  never : 

here 
I  brave  the  worst "  :  and  while  we  stooci 

like  fools 
Embracing,  all  at  once  a  score  of  pugs 
And  jjoodles  yell'd  within,  and  out  they 

came 
Trusteesand  Aunts  and  Uncles.    "What, 

with  him  ! 
Go"  (shrill'd  the  cotton-spinning  choruS/  \ 

"  him  ! " 
I  choked.     Again  they  shriek'd  the  bur- 
den—  "Him  I" 
Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection  "Go!  — 
Girl,  get  you  in  !"    She  went — and  in 

one  month 
They   wedded    her  to    sixty   thousand 

pounds. 


•74 


ST.   SIMEON   STYLITES. 


To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 
And  slight  Sir  Kobert  with  his  watery 

smile 
And  educated  whisker.     But  for  me, 
They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work  : 
It  seems  I  broke  a  close  with  force  and 

arms  : 
There  came  a  mystic  token  from  the  king 
To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy  ! 
I   read,  and  lied   by  night,  and   flying 

turn'd  : 
Her  taper  glimmer'd  in  the  lake  below  : 
I  turn'd  once  more,  close-buttoned  to  the 

storm ; 
So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to 

hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear  ?  perhaps :  yet  long 

ago 
I  have  pardon'd  little  Letty  ;  not  indeed. 
It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but  this, 
Sheseemsa  part  of  those  fresh  daysto  me  ; 
For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London  life 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake, 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing, 

or  then 
While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  ovei'head 
The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  summer 

crag. 


ST.    SIMEON   STYLITES. 

Altho'  I  be  the  basest  of  mankind, 
From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust 

of  sin. 
Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce 

meet 
For  troops  of  deWls,  mad  with  blasphemy, 
I  will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  1  hold 
Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn  and 

sob, 
Batteringthe  gates  of  heaven  with  storms 

of  prayer, 
Have  mercy.  Lord,  and  take  away  my  sin. 
Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty 

God, 
This  n  ot  be  all  in  vain ,  th  at  thrice  ten  years, 
Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs. 
In  hungersand  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold. 
In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous  throes 

and  cramps, 
A  sign  betwixt  the  ineadowand  the  cloud, 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I  have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and 

sleet,  and  snow  ; 


And  1  had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into 

thy  rest. 
Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and 

the  i)alm. 
0  take  the  meaning,  Lord  :  I  do  not 

breathe. 
Not  whisper,  any  murmur  of  complaint. 
Pain    heap'd  ten-hundred-fold   to   this^ 

were  still 
Less  burden,    by   ten-hundred-fold,    to 

bear. 
Than   were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin, 

that  crush'd 
My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

0  Lord,  Lord, 
Thou  knowest  I  bore  this  better  at  the  first. 
For  I  was  strong  and  hale  of  body  then  ; 
And  tho'  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt 

away, 
Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my 

beard 
Was  tagg'd  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 
I  drown'd  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with 

sound 
Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  some- 
times saw 
An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I  sang. 
Now  am  1  feeble  grown  ;  my  end  draws 

nigh  ; 
I  hopemy  end  draws  nigh  :  half  deaf  I  am. 
So  that  1  scarce  can  hear  the  people  hum 
About  the   column's   base,    and   almost 

blind, 
Andscarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I  know; 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with  the 

dew ; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  clamor  and  to  cry. 
While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  weary 

head. 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  the 

stone, 
Have  merc}%  mercy  :  take  away  my  sin. 
0  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul, 
Who  may  be  saved?  who  is  it  may  be 

saved  ? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint,  if  I  fail  here  ? 
Show   me  the  man  hath  sutter'd  more 

than  1. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one  death  ? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified, 
Or  burn'din  fire,  or  boil'd  in  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs  ;  but  I  die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a  life  of 

death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I  could  have  found  a  way 


ST.   SIMEON   STYLITES. 


75 


(And  heedfully  I  sifted  all  my  thought) 
More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this  home. 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I  despise  and  hate, 
I  had  not  stinted  practice,  0  my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment, 
Not  this  alone  I  bore  :  but  while  I  lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley 

♦here, 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I  wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the 

well, 
Twisted   as   tight  as  I  could   knot  the 

noose  ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a  single  soul. 
Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro'  my  .skin, 
Betray'd  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvell'dgreatly.  More  than 

this 
1  bore,  whereof,  0  God,  thou  knowest  all. 
Three  winters,  that  my  soul  mightgrow 

to  thee, 
I  lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountainside. 
My  right  leg  chain'd  into  the  crag,  I  lay 
Pent  in  a  roofless  close  of  ragged  .stones  ; 
Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering  mist, 

and  twice 
Black'd  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and 

sometimes 
Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating 

not. 
Except   the   spare  chance-gift  of  those 

that  came 
To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal'd,  and  live  : 
And  they  say  then  that  I  work'd  miracles. 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  among.st  man- 
kind, 
Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.    Thou, 

OGod, 
Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 
Have  mercy,  mercy  ;  cover  all  my  sin. 
Then,  that  I  might  be  more  alone  with 

thee. 
Three  years  I  lived  upon  a  pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and   three   years  on  one  of 

twelve  ; 
And  twice  three  years  I  crouch'd  on  one 

that  rose 

Twenty  by  measure  ;  last  of  all,  I  grew 

Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to  this. 

That  niimbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 

I  think  that  I  have  borne  as  much  as 

this  — 
Or  else  I  dream  —  and  for  so  long  a  time, 
If  I  may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light, 
And   this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 

crowns  — 
So  much  —  even  so. 


And  yet  I  know  not  well. 

For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and 
say, 

"  Fall  down,  0  Simeon  :  thou  hast  suf- 
fer'd  long 

For  ages  and  for  r.ges  !  "  tlien  they  prate 

Of  penances  I  cannot  have  gone  thro'. 

Perplexing  me  with  lies  ;  and  oft  I  fall, 

Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethar- 
gies, 

That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are 
choked. 

But  yet 

Bethink  thee.  Lord,  while  thou  and  all 
the  saints 

Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men  on 
earth 

House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable  roofs. 

Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  whole- 
some food. 

And  wear  v/arm  clothes,  and  even  beasts 
have  stalls, 

I,  'tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the 
light. 

Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hun- 
dred times. 

To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the 
Saints  ; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a  little  sleep, 

I  wake  :  the  chill  stars  sparkle  ;  1  am  wet 

With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with  crack- 
ling frost. 

I  wear  an  undress'd  goatskin  on  myback  • 

A  grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck  ; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I  lift  the 
cross. 

And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  1 
die  : 

0  mercy,  mercy  !  wa.sh  away  my  sin. 
0  Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a  man  I 
am  ; 

A  sinful  man,  conceived  and  l)orn  in  sin  : 

'T  is  their  own  doing  ;  this  is  none  of 
mine  ; 

Lay  it  not  to  me.     Am  I   to  blame  for 
this. 

That  hei-e  come  those  that  worship  me  1 
Ha  !  ha  ! 

They  think  that  1  am  somewhat.    What 
am  I  ? 

The  silly  people  take  me  for  a  saint. 

And   bring   me   offerings   of  fruit   and 
flowers  : 

And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness 
here) 

Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and 
more 


76 


ST.   SIMEON   STYLITE5. 


Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose 
names 

Are  registei'd  and  calendar'd  for  saints. 
Good  i)eople,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 

What  is  it  I  can  have  done  to  merit  this  ? 

)[  am  a  sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  1  have  wrought  some  miracles, 

And  cured  some  halt  and  maim'd  ;  but 
what  of  that  ? 

Jt  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints, 

May  match  his  jjuins  with  mine  ;   but 
what  of  that  ? 

Yet  do  not  rise  ;  for  you  may  look  on  me, 

And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to 
God. 

Speak  !    is   there   any   of  you   halt   or 
maim'd  ? 

1  think  you  know  I  have  some  power  with 
Heaven 

From  my  long  penance  :  let  him  speak 
liis  wish. 
Yes,  I  can  heal  him.    Power  goes  forth 
from  me. 

They   say   that   they   are   heal'd.     Ah, 
hark  !  they  shout 

"St.  Simeon  Stylites."     Why,  if  so, 

God  reaps  a  harvest  in  me.     0  my  soul, 

God  reaps  a  harvest  in  thee.     If  this  be. 

Can  I  work  miracles  and  not  be  saved  ? 

This  is  not  told  of  any .    They  were  saints. 

It  cannot  be  but  that  I  shall  be  saved  ; 

Yea,  crown'd  a  saint.    Tliey  shout,  "Be- 
hold a  saint  ! " 

And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 

Courage,  St.  Simeon  !  This  dull  chrysalis 

Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere 
death 

Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that 
God  hath  now 

Sponged   and   made  blank  of  crimeful 
record  all 

My  mortal  archives. 

O  my  sons,  my  sous, 

I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 

Stylites,  among  men  ;  1,  Simeon, 

The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end  ; 

I,    Simeon,  whose   brain   the   sunshine 
bakes  ; 

I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  be- 
come 

Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 

From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  pro- 
claim 

That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 

Show'd  like  fair  seraphs.     On  the  coals 
I  lay, 

A  vessel  full  of  sin  ;  all  hell  beneath 


Made  me  boil  over.     Devils  pluck'd  my 

sleeve  ; 
Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 
I  smote  them  with  the  cross ;  theyswarm'd 

again. 
In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crush'd 

my  chest  : 
Tlieyflapp'd  my  light  out  as  I  read  :  I  saw 
Their  faces  grow  between   me  and  my 

book  ; 
With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish 

whine 
They  burst  my  prayer.     Yet  this  way 

was  left. 
And  by  this  way  I  'scaped  them.    Mortify 
Y'our  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and 

with  thorns  ; 
Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.     If  it  may 

be,  fast 
Whole  Lents,  and  pray.     1  hardly,  with 

slow  steps. 
With  slow,  faint   steps,  and  much  ex- 
ceeding pain. 
Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire, 

that  still 
Sing  in  mine  ears.     But  yield  not  me  the 

praise : 
God  only  thro'  his  bounty  hath  thought 

fit, 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this 

world, 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 
Which  few  can  reach  to.     Yet  I  do  not 

say 
But  that  a  time  may  come  —  yea,  even 

now. 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  thresh- 
old stairs 
Of  life  ■ —  I  say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without  re- 
proach ; 
For  1  will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land, 
And  you  may  carve  a  shrine  about  my  dust, 
And  burn  a  fragrant  lamp  before  my  bones, 
Wlien  I  am  gather'd  to  the  glorious  saints. 
While  1  spake  then,  asting  of  shrewdest 

pain 
Ean  shrivelling  thro'  me,  and  a  cloudlike 

change, 
In  passing,  with  a  grosser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  hornj^  eyes.     The  end  !  the 

end  ! 
Surely  the  end  !     What 's  here  ?  a  shape, 

a  shade, 
A  flash  of  light.     Is  that  the  angel  tliere 
That   holds   a   crown  ?     Come,    blessed 

brother,  come. 


THE   TALKING   OAK. 


77 


I  know  thyglitteving  face.  I  waited  long ; 
My  brows  are  ready.  What !  deny  it  now  ? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.   So  1  cluteh 

it.     Christ  ! 
'T  is  gone  :  't  is  here  again  ;  the  crown  ! 

the  crown  ! 
So  now  't  is  titted  on  and  grows  to  me. 
And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 
Sweet !  sweet !  spikenard,  and  balm,  and 

frankincense. 
Ah  !  let  me  not  be  fool'd,  sweet  saints  : 

1  trust 
That  I  am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet 

for  Heaven. 
Speak,  if  there  be  a  priest,  a  man  of 

God, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approacli,  and  lean  a  ladder  on  the  shaft, 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home, 
Deliver  ine  the  blessed  sacrament ; 
For  by  the  warning  of  tlie  Holy  Ghost, 
I  prophesy  that  I  shall  die  to-night, 
A  quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  0  Lord, 
Aid  all  this  foolish  people  ;  let  them  take 
Example,  pattern  :  lead  them  to  thy  light. 


THE  TALKING   OAK. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls  ; 

Once  more  before  my  face 
I  see  the  moulder'd  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies, 
Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke  ; 

And  ah  !  with  what  delighted  eyes 
I  turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began. 
Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn'd. 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a  man, 
Could  hope  itself  return'd  ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 

I  spoke  without  restraint. 
And  with  a  larger  faith  appeal'd 

Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  1  talk'd  with  him  apart. 
And  told  him  of  my  choice. 

Until  he  plagiarized  a  heart. 
And  answer'd  with  a  voice. 

Tho'  what  he  whisper'd,  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand  ; 


I  found  him  garrulously  given, 
A  babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I  heard  him  make  reply 

Is  many  a  weary  hour  ; 
'T  were  well  to  question  him,  and  try 

If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern. 
Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-chace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Suniner-place  ! 

Say  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name, 

If  ever  maid  or  spouse, 
As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.  — 

"0  Walter,  1  have  shelter'd  here 

Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  year, 

Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

"Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was  fat, 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek. 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  u[iou  the  cheek, 

' '  Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter's-pence, 
And  number'd  bead,  and  shrift, 

Blulf  Harry  broke  into  the  .spence, 
And  turn'd  the  cowls  adrift  : 

"And  I  have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces,  that  would  thrive 

When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five  ; 

"And  all  that  from  the  town  wouldstroil, 
Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 

In  which  the  gloomy  brewer's  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a  stork  : 

"The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood. 

And  others,  passing  praise. 
Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 

For  puritanic  stays  : 

"And  I  have  shadow'd  many  a  group 

Of  beauties,  that  were  born 
In  t^eacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn  ; 

"And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay, 
About  me  leap'd  and  laugh'd 

The  modest  Cupid  of  the  day. 
And  shrill' d  his  tinsel  shaft. 


78 


THE   TALKING   OAK. 


•'  1  swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 

Each  leaf  into  a  gall) 
This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick, 

Is  three  times  worth  them  all ; 

"  For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature's  law, 

Have  faded  long  ago  ; 
But  in  these  latter  springs  I  saw 

Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

"From  whciu  she  gamboll'd  onthegreens, 

A  baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 

Could  number  five  fi'om  ten. 

"  I  swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho'  I  circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

*'  Yet,  since  I  first  could  cast  a  shade, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made, 

So  light  upon  the  grass  : 

*'  For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I  hold  them  exquisitely  knit, 
But  far  too  spare  of  flesh." 

0,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern. 

And  overlook  the  chace  ; 
And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 

The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I  carved  her  name. 
That  oft  hast  heard  my  vows. 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

"0  yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 

Was  holden  at  the  town  ; 
Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

"  And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his. 

I  look'd  at  him  with  joy  : 
As  cowslip  unto  o.xlip  is. 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

"  An    hour     had     past  —  and,    sitting 
straight 

Within  the  low-wheel'd  chaise. 
Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 

Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

"  But,  as  for  her,  she  stay'd  at  home 
And  on  the  roof  she  went, 


And  down  the  way  you  used  to  come, 
She  look'd  with  discontent. 

"  She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 

Upon  the  rosewood  shelf; 
She  left  the  new  piano  shut  : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

"  Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt, 

And  livelier  than  a  lark 
She  sent  her  voice  thro'  all  the  holt 

Before  her,  and  the  park. 

"A  light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing, 
And  in  the  chase  grew  wild. 

As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child  : 

"  But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 

So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 
The  flower,  she  touch'd  on,  dipt  and  rose, 

And  turn'd  to  look  at  her. 

' '  And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  play'd. 

And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 

About  my  '  giant  bole  '  ; 

"  And  in  a  fit  of  frolic  mirth       ' 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 

Alas,  I  was  so  broad  of  girth, 
I  could  not  be  embraced. 

"  I  wish'd  myself  the  fair  young  beech 
That  here  beside  me  stands, 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each, 
She  might  have  lock'd  her  hands. 

' '  Yet  seem'd  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 

As  woodbine's  fragile  hold, 
Or  when  I  feel  about  my  feet 

The  berried  briony  fold." 

0  muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern, 
And  shadow  Sumner-chace  ! 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  rend  the  name 

I  carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  with  throbbing  heart  I  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  ? 

"O  yes,  she  wander'd  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine, 

Andfound,  andkiss'd  filename  shefound, 
And  sweetly  murmur'd  thine. 


THE  TALKING  OAK 


79 


"A  teardrop  tremblefl  from  its  source, 
And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  seuse  of  touch  is  somethiug  coarse, 
But  I  believe  she  wept. 

"Then  flush'd  her  cheek  with  rosy  light, 
She  glanced  across  the  plain  ; 

iJut  not  a  creature  was  iu  sight : 
She  kiss'd  me  once  again. 

"  Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind, 
Tliat,  trust  me  on  my  word, 

Hard  wood  I  am,  and  wrinkled  rind, 
But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr'd: 

"And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 

A  pleasure  I  discern 'd, 
Like  tiiose  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 

That  show  the  year  is  turu'd. 


"  Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet's  waving  balm  — 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press • 
The  maiden's  tender  palm. 

"  I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  ^apid  vegetable  lo^-es 

With  anthers  and  with  dust; 

"  For  ah  !  my  friend,  the  days  were  brief 

Wherctjf  the  poets  talk, 
When  tliat,which  breathes  within  the  leaf, 

Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

"  But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone. 
From  spray,  and  branch,  and  stem. 

Have  suck'd  and  gatlier'd  into  one 
Tlie  life  that  spreads  in  them. 


*'  SUl-  fj:lanoei.l  across  the  plain  ; 
But  not  a  creature  was  in  sijjiit; 
She  ktes'd  me  once  a^aia." 


80 


THE  TALKING   OAK. 


"  She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss  ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro', 
I  woild  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss. 

With  usury  thereto." 

0  flourish  high,  with  leafy  toAvers, 

And  overlook  the  lea, 
Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers. 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

0  flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern. 

Old  oak,  1  love  thee  well ; 
A  thousand  thanks  for  what  I  learn 

And  what  remains  to  tell. 

"  'T  is  little  more  :  the  day  was  warm  ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play, 
She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

"  Her  eyelids  dropp'd  their  silken  eaves. 

I  breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro'  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 

A  welcome  mix'd  with  sighs. 

"  I  took  the  swarming  sound  of  life  — 
The  music  from  the  town  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  life 
And  lull'd  them  in  my  own. 

"Sometimes  I  let  a  sunbeam  slip. 

To  light  her  shaded  eye  ; 
A  second  flutter'd  round  her  lip 

Like  a  golden  butterfly  ; 

"A  third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine  ; 

Another  slid,  a  sunny  fleck, 
From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

"  Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I  spread. 
And  shadow'd  all  her  rest  — 

Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head, 
An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

"  But  in  a  pet  she  started  up, 
And  pluck'd  it  out,  and  drew 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 
And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  graceful  gift  — 

I  felt  a  pang  within 
As  when  I  see  the  woodman  lift 

His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

"  I  shook  him  down  because  he  was 
The  finest  on  the  tree. 


He  lies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 
0  kiss  him  once  for  me. 

' '  0  kiss  him  tvnce  and  thrice  for  me, 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss. 
For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 

Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this." 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern. 
Look  further  thro'  the  chace. 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest, 

That  but  a  moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 

Some  happy  future  day, 

I  kiss  it  twice,  I  kiss  it  thrice. 
The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 

To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  Avhile  kingdoms  overset, 
Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand, 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint. 
That  art  the  fairest-s^^oken  tree 

From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

0  rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet ! 

All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  f"et  I 

All  gi-ass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 
And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 

The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

That  under  deeply  strikes  ! 
The  northern  morning  o'er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes  ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain, 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep. 
Low  thundeis  bring  the  mellow  rain. 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  ! 

And  hear  me  swear  a  solemn  oath, 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I  to  Olive  plight  my  troth. 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 


LOVE   AND    DUTY. 


81 


And  when  my  marriage  mom  may  fall, 
She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 

Alternate  leaf  and  aeorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I  will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  hard  has  honor'd  beech  or  lime, 
Or  that  Thessalian  growth. 

In  whicli  tlie  swarthy  ringdove  sat, 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke  ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that, 
Thy  famous  brother-oak. 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim, 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode. 
And  humm'd  a  surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close, 
What  sequel  ?  Streaming  eyes  and  break- 
ing hearts  ? 
Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 
Not  so.     Shall  Error  in  the  round  of 
time 
Still  father  Truth  ?    0  shall  the  braggart 

shout 
For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom  work 

itself 
Thro'  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law 
System  and  empire  ?    Sin  itself  be  found 
Tlie  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the  Sun '! 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust  ?  or  year  by  year  alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a  life, 
Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  him- 
self ? 
If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were 
all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart, 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless 

days, 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro, 
The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  1  not  the  nobler  thro'  thy  love  ? 
Othreetimeslessunworthy !  likewise  thou 
Art  more  thro'  Love,  and  greater  than  thy 

years. 
The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  Moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  himself  will 

bring 
Thedrooping  flower  of  knowledgechanged 
to  fruit 


Of  wisdom.     Wait :  my  faith  is  large  in 

Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect 

end. 
Will  some  one  say.  Then  why  not  ill  for 

good  ? 
Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime  ?    To  that 

man 
My  work  shall  answer,  since  I  knew  the 

right 
And  did  it ;  for  a  man  is  not  as  God, 
But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a  man. 
—  So  let  me  think  't  is  well  for  thee  and 

me  — 
Ill-fated  that  I  am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart 

so  slow 
To  feel  it  !    For  how  hard  it  seem'd  to  me, 
When  eyes,  love-languid  thro  half-tears, 

would  dwell 
One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine, 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see  !  when  thy  low 

voice. 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to 

keep 
My  own  full-tuned,  — hold  passion  in  a 

leash. 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy  neck, 
And  on  thy  bosom,  (deep-desired  relief !) 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that 

weigh'd 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses  and  my  soul ! 
For  Love  himself  took  part  against 

himself 
To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of  Love  — 
0  this  world's  curse,  —  beloved  but  hated 

—  came 
Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace  and 

mine, 
And  crying,  "  Who  is  this  ?  behold  thy 

bride," 
She  push'd  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 
To  alien  ears,  I  did  not  speak  to  these  — 
No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  tliyself  in  me  : 
Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine  :  thou  know- 

est  it  all. 
Could  Love  part  thus  ?  was  it  not  well 

to  speak, 
To  have  spoken  once  ?    It  could  not  but 

be  well. 
The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  good. 
The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all 

things  ill. 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought 

the  night 


82 


THE   GOLDEN   YEAR. 


In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone, 
And  to  the  want,  that  hollow'd  all  the 

heart, 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an  eye, 
That  burn'd  upon  its  object  thro'  such 

tears 
As  flow  but  once  a  life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a  hundred  times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  last, 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived  and 

died. 
Then  follow'd  counsel,  comfort,  and  the 

words 
That  make  a  man  feel  strong  in  speaking 

truth  ; 
Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  mix'd 
In  that  brief  night ;  the  summer  night, 

that  paused 
Among  her  stars  to  hear  us  ;  stars  that 

hung 
Love-charm' d  to  listen  :  all  the  wheels 

of  Time 
Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had 

come. 
0  then  like  those,  who  clench  their 

nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose. 
There  —  closing  like  an  individual  life  — 
In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain. 
Like  bitter  accusation  ev'n  to  death. 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utter'd  it. 
And  bade  adieu  for  ever. 

Live  —  yet  live  — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing 

all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will  — 
Live  h-appy  ;  tend  thy  flowers  ;  be  tended 

My  blessing  !     Should  my  Shadow  cross 

thy  thoughts 
Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory's  darkest 

hold. 
If  not  to  be  forgotten  —  not  at  once  — 
Not  all  forgotten.     Should  it  cross  thy 

dreams, 
O  might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  con- 
tent, 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth. 
And  point  thee  forward  to  a  distant  light. 
Or  seem  to  lift  a  burden  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake  re- 

fresh'd, 
Then  when  the  first  low  matin-chirp  hath 
grown 


Full  quire,  and  morning  driv'nherplough 

of  pearl 
Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded 

rack, 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  eastern  sea. 


THE   GOLDEN   YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which 

Leonard  wrote  : 
It  was  last  summer  on  a  tour  in  Wales ; 
Old  James  was  with  me :  we  that  day 

had  been 
Up  Snowdon  ;  and  I  wish'd  ibr  Leonard 

there. 
And  found  him  in  Llanberis  :  then  we 

crost 
Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber'd  hall 

way  up 
The  counter  side  ;  and  that  same  song  of 

his 
He  told  me  ;  for  I  banter'd  him,  and  swore 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself, 
A  tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous  days. 
That,  setting  the /iowjHMcA  before  the  hoio, 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horseleech, 

"  Give, 
Cram  us  with  all,"  but  count  not  me  the 

herd  ! 
To  which  "They  call  me  what  they 

will,"  he  said  : 
' '  But  I  was  born  too  late :  the  fair  new 

forms, 
That  float  about  the  threshol'd  of  an  age, 
Like  truths   of  Science  waiting  to   be 

caught  — 
Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the  catcher 

crown'd  — 
Are  taken  by  the  forelock.     Let  it  be. 
But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 
These  measured  words,  my  work  of  yes- 

termorn. 
"  We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all 

things  move  ; 
The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun  ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel'd  in  her 

ellipse  ; 
And  human  things  returning  on  them- 
selves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 
"Ah,  tho'  the  times,  when  some  new 

thought  can  bud, 
Are  but  as  poets'  seasons  when  they  flower, 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore. 
Have  ebb   and   flow  conditioning  their 

march. 


ULYSSES. 


83 


And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden 

yecvr. 
"  When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in 

mounded  heaps, 
But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 
And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker 

man 
Thro'  all  the  season  of  the  golden  3'ear. 
"Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ?  wrens  be 

wrens  ? 
If  all  the  world  were  falco7is,  what  of  that  ? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less, 
But  he  not  less  the  eagle.     Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 
' '  Fly,  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the 

Press  ; 
Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross  ; 
Knitlandtoland,  and  blowinghavenward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear 

of  toll, 
Enrif;h  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 
"  But  we  grow  old.     Ah  !  when  shall 

all  men's  good 
Be  each  man's  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a  sliaft  of  light  across  the  land. 
And  like  a  lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea. 
Thro'  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year  ? " 
Thus  far  he  How'd,  and  ended  ;  where- 
upon 
"Ah,    folly!"    in   mimic   cadence   an- 

swer'd  James  — 
"  Ah,  folly  !  for  it  lies  so  far  away, 
Nctinourtimp,  norin  our  children's  time, 
'T  is  like  the  second  world  to  us  that  live  ; 
'T  were  all  as  one  to   fix  our  hopes  on 

Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year." 
With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against 

the  rocks 
And  broke  it,  —  James,  —  you  know  him, 

—  old,  but  full 
Offeree  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his  feet. 
And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O'erflourish'd  with  the  hoary  clematis  : 
Then  added,  all  in  heat  : 

"What  stufTisthis  ! 
Old  writers   push'd   the   happy   season 

back,  ^ 
The    more   fools    they,  —  we    forward : 

dreamei's  both  : 
You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every  hour 
Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the  death, 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman, 

rapt 
Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not 

plunge 


His  hand  into  the  bag  :  but  well  I  know 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he 

works. 
This  same  grand  year  is  everat  the  doors." 
He  spoke  ;  and,  liigh  above,  I  heard 

them  blast 
The  steep   slate  quarry,  and   the  great 

eclio  liap 
And  bullet  round  the  hills  from  bluif  tc 

blutf. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

crags, 
Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and 

dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race. 
That  hoard,  and   sleep,  and   feed,    and 

know  not  me. 
I  cannot  rest  from  travel  :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  1  have  enjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  loved  me,  and  alone  ;  on  shore,  and 

when 
Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea  :  I  am  become  a  name  ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known  ;  citiesofmen 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments, 
Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all ; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  thaj;  1  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 
Gleams   that   untravell'd   world,  whose 

margin  fades 
For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end. 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  piled 

on  life 
Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  saved 
From   that   eternal   silence,    something 

more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard 

myself. 
And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star. 
Beyond   the   utmost   bound   of  human 

thought. 


84 


ULYSSES. 


This  ismyson>  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  mg.ke  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods. 
When  1  am  gone.     He  works  his  woi'k, 

I  mine. 
There  lies  the  port :  the  vessel  puffs 

her  sail : 
There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.     My 

mariners, 
Souls  that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 


The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  op« 

posed 
Free  hearts,  fi'ee  foreheads  —  you  and  I 

are  old  ; 
Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil ; 
Death  closes  all  :  but  something  ere  the 

end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  witli 

Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks : 
The   long  day  wanes  :  the  slow  moon 

climbs  :  the  deep 
Moans  round  with,  many  voices.     Come, 

my  friends, 
'Tis  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose 

holds 


•There  lie-       ■  ;  -  :      '1."  v^rsscJ  i-ulf^  her  sails 
There  glcoin  the  darK  broad  seas." 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 


85 


To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 

Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  1  die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wa.sh  us 

down : 
It  maybe  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see   the  great  Achilles,  whom  we 

knew. 
The'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  :  and 

tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  wluch  in 

old  days 
Moved  earth  and  Iieaven  ;  that  whiili  we 

are,  we  are  ; 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong 

in  will 
Tostrive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


LOCKSLEY    HALL. 

CoMii.vDE.s,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while 

as  yet  't  is  early  morn  : 
Leave  me  here,  and  wlien  j-ou  want  me, 

sound  upon  the  bugle  horn. 

'T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  asof  old. 

the  curlews  call, 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying 

over  Locksley  Hall ; 

Loeksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  over- 
looks the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  iutc 
cataracts. 


"T  IS  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call. 
Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flyins;  over  Locksley  Hall.' 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement, 

ere  I  went  to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly 

to  the  West. 

Many  a  night  I  saw  the  Pleiads,  rising 

thro'  the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-fhes  tangled  in 

a  silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nour- 
ishing a  youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the 
long  result  of  Time  ; 

When   the  centuries  behind  me  like   a 

fruitful  land  reposed  ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the 

promise  that  it  closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human 

eye  could  see  ; 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be. 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon 

the  robin's  breast  ; 
In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets 

himself  another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on 

the  burnish'd  dove  ; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly 

turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 
should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a 
mute  observance  hung. 

And  I  said,  "  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 

speak  the  truth  to  me. 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my 

being  sets  to  thee." 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 

color  and  a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 

northern  night. 

And  she  turn'd  —  her  bosom  shaken  with 
a  sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark 
of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  "I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing 
they  should  do  me  wrong"  ; 

Saying,  "Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?" 
weeping,  ' '  I  have  loved  thee  long. " 


Love  took  i;pthe  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd 
it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself 
in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote 
on  all  the  chords  with  miglit ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling, 
pass'd  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  w, 

hear  the  copses  ring, 
And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with 

the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we 
M'atch  the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the 
touching  of  the  lips. 

0  my   cousin,    shallow-hearted !  0  my 

Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 
0  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !  0  the 

barren,  barren  shore  ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than 

all  songs  have  sung. 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to 

a  shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? —  having 
known  me  —  to  decline 

On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  nar- 
rower heart  than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his 

level  day  by  day, 
What  is  fine  witliin  thee  growing  coarse 

to  sj'mpathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art 

mated  with  a  clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have 

weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall 
have  spent  its  novel  force. 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little 
dearer  than  his  horse. 

Wliat  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy  :  think 
not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 

Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him ; 
take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  braiii 

is  overwrought  : 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch 

him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 


LOCKSLEY    HALL. 


87 


'  Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips." 


riewill  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things 

to  understand  — 
Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I 

slew  thee  with  my  hand  1 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from 

the  heart's  disgrace, 
Roll'd  in  one  another's  arms,  and  silent 

in  a  last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against 

the  strength  of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 

the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from 

lionest  Nature's  rule  ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  thatgildsthe  straiten'd. 

forehead  of  the  fool ! 


Well  — 't  is  well  that  I  should  bluster!  — 
Hadsttliou  less  unworthy  proved  — 

Would  to  God  — for  1  had  loved  thee 
more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that 
which  bears  but  bitter  fruit  ? 

I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my 
heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such 
length  of  years  should  come 

As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the 
clanging  rookery  home. 

Where   is  comfort?   in  division   of  the 

records  of  the  mind  ? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  hsr, 

as  I  knew  her,  kind  ? 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 


I  remember  one  that  perisli'd  :  sweetly 
did  she  speak  and  move  : 

Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look 
at  was  to  love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her 

for  the  love  she  bore  ? 
Uo  —  she  never  loved  me  truly  :  love  is 

love  for  evermore. 

Comfort  ?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this 
is  truth  the  poet  sings. 

That  a  sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow  is  re- 
membering happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it, 
lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof. 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when 
the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou 

art  staring  at  the  wall, 
"Where  the  dying  night-lamp  iiickers,  and 

the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  point- 
ing to  his  drunken  sleep. 

To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,  to  the 
tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  "Never,  never," 
wliisper'd  by  the  phantom  years. 

And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the 
ringing  of  tliine  ears  ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  an- 
cient kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow  :  get 
thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  biings  thee  solace  ;  for 

a  tender  voice  will  cry. 
'T  is  a  purer  life  than  thine  ;  a  lip  to 

drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  :  my  latest 

rival  brings  thee  rest. 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me 

from  the  mother's  breast. 

0,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with 

a  dearness  not  his  due. 
Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be 

worthy  of  the  two. 

0,  I  see  thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy 

petty  part, 
With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching 

down  a  daughter's  heart. 


"  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings 
—  she  herself  was  not  exempt  — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd  " —  Fei'ish 
in  thy  self-contempt ! 

Overlive    it  —  lower    yet  —  be    happy  ! 

wherefore  should  I  care  ? 
I  myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I 

wither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I  should  turn  to, 
lighting  upon  days  like  these  ? 

Every  door  is  barr'd  with  gold,  and  opens 
but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng' d  with  suitors,  all 

the  markets  overflow. 
I  have  but  an  angry  fancy  :  what  is  that 

which  I  should  do  ? 

I  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on 

the  foeman's  ground, 
When  the  ranks  are  roU'd  in  vapor,  and 

the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the 
hurt  that  Honor  feels. 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarl- 
ing at  each  other's  heels. 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?     I  will  turn 

that  earlier  page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  0  thou 

wondrous  Mother- Age  ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pitlsation  that  I 

felt  before  the  strife. 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and 

the  tumult  of  my  life  ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that 
the  ■coming  years  would  yield. 

Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves 
his  father's  field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway 
near  and  nearer  drawn. 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flar- 
ing like  a  dreary  dawn  ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be 

gone  before  him  then, 
Underneath   the   light  he  looks  at,  in 

among  the  thi'ongs  of  men  ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  evei 
reaping  something  new  : 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest 
of  the  things  that  they  shaU  do  ; 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 


89 


rv". -,■,'•.-,.'.> 


'  Baby  lips  win  lau^h  me  down :  my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rejt; 
Baby  fingers,  waxen  touclies,  press  me  from  the  mother's  breast.' 


For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human 

eye  could  see, 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the 

wonder  that  would  be  ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  ar- 
gosies of  magic  sails. 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping 
down  with  costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and 
there  rain'd  a  ghastly  dew 

From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling 
in  the  central  blue  ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south-wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plun- 
ging thro'  the  thunder-storm  i 


Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer, 
and  the  battle-flags  were  furl'd 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation 
of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall 
hold  a  fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt 
in  universal  law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping 

thro'  me  left  me  dry. 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left 

me  with  the  jaundiced  eye  ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  thinga 
here  are  out  cf  joint  : 

Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creep- 
ing on  from  point  to  point : 


90 


LOCKSLEY   HALL. 


Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion, 

creeping  nigher, 
Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind 

a  slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  in- 
creasing purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd 
with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not 
harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for 
ever  like  a  boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers, 
and  I  linger  on  the  shore. 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the 
world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers, 
and  he  bears  a  laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward 
the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sound- 
ing on  the  bugle-horn, 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a 
target  for  their  scorn  : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on 
such  a  nioulder'd  string  ? 

I  am  shamed  thro'  all  my  nature  to  have 
loved  so  slight  a  thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  !  wo- 
man's pleasure,  woman's  pain  — 

Nature  made  them  blinder  motions 
bounded  in  a  shallower  brain  : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy 
passions,  match'd  with  mine. 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as 
water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  noth- 
ing.    Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my 
life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my 
father  evil-starr'd  ;  — 

I  was  left  a  trampled  orphan,  and  a  self- 
ish uncle's  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  —  there  to 
wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gate- 
ways of  the  day. 


Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow 
moons  and  happy  skies. 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in 
cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  ti-ader,  never  floats  an 

European  flag. 
Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland, 

swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag  ; 

Droops  the  heavy  -  blossom'd  bower, 
hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark -pur- 
ple spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment 
more  than  in  this  march  of  mind, 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 
thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall 
have  scope  and  bieathing-space  ; 

I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall 
rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall 
dive,  and  they  shall  run. 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and 
hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun  ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap 
the  rainbows  of  the  brooks, 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  ovei 
miserable  books- — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I 
kno^v  my  words  are  wild. 

But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than 
the  Christian  child. 

/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant 

of  our  glorious  gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a 

beast  with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage  —  what  to 

me  were  sun  or  clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost 

files  of  time  — 

I  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should 

perish  one  by  one. 
Than   that  earth    should  stand  at  gaze 

like  Joshua's  moon  in  Ajalon  ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  For- 
ward, forward  let  us  range. 

Let  the  great  world  spin  for  e\'er  down 
the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 


GODIVA. 


91 


Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 

into  the  younger  day  : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle 

of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help 
nie  as  when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash 
the  liglitnings,  weigh  the  Sun  — 

0,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 

hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro' 

all  my  fancy  yet. 


Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  fare- 
well to  Locksley  Hall  ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now 
for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  black- 
ening over  heath  and  holt. 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its 
breast  a  thunder))olt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain 
or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow  ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  sea- 
ward, and  I  go. 


■  Comes  a  vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  lie.iih  .md  holt, 
Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it   in  its  breast  a  thunderbolt." 


GODIVA. 

/  waitzd  for  the  train  at  Coventry ; 

I  hu7uj  loith  grooms  and  porters  on  the 

bridge. 
To  loatch  tJie  three  tall  spires;  and  there 

I  shaped 
The  city's  ancient  legend  into  this  :  — 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 
New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a  wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  thatprate 
Of  rights   and  wrongs,  have  loved  the 

people  well, 
And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax' d  ;  but 

she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame, 
The  woman  of  a  thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who  ruled 
In  Coventrv  ;  for  when  he  laid  a  tax 


Upon   his   town,  and   all   the   mothers 

brought 
Their  children,  clamoring,  "  If  we  pay, 

we  starve  !  " 
She   sought   her  lord,  and   found  him, 

where  he  strode 
About  the  hall,  a-niong  his  dogs,  alone, 
His  beard  a  foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 
A  yard  behind.     She  told  him  of  their 

tears. 
And  pray'd  him,  "  If  they  pay  this  tax, 

they  starve." 
Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 
"  You  would  not  let  yourlittle  finger  ache 
For   such   as  these?"  —  "But   I  would 

die,"  .said  she. 
He  laugh'd,  and  swore  by  Peter  and  by 

Paul : 
Then  filliit'd  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear  ' 


92 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 


"  0  'ay,  aj',  ay,  you  talk  !  "  — "Alas  ! " 

she  said, 
"  But  prove  me  what  it  isl  wouldnotdo." 
Andfrom  a  heart  as  rough  as  Esau'shand, 
He  answer'd,  "  Eide  you  naked  thro'  the 

town, 
Aud  I  repeal  it "  ;  and  nodding,  as  in 

scorn. 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his 

dogs. 
So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 
As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and 

blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 
Till  pity  won.     She  sent  a  herald  forth, 
And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trum- 
pet, all 
The  hard  condition  ;  but  that  she  would 

loose 
The  people  :  therefore,  as  they  loved  her 

well. 
From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace 

the  street, 
No  eye  look  down,  she  passing  ;  but  that 

all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  win- 
dow barr'd. 
Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower, 

and  there 
TJnclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 
She  linger'd,  looking  like  a  summer  moou 
Half-dipt  in  cloud  :  anon  she  shook  her 

head, 
And  shower'd  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her 

knee  ; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste  ;  adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ;  and,  like  a  creeping  sixnbeam, 

•slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach'd 
The  gateway  ;  there  she  found  her  pal- 
frey trapt 
In  purple  blazon'd  with  armorial  gold. 
Then  shp  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with 

chastity  : 
The  deep  airlisten'droundherasshe  rode, 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed 

for  fear. 
The  little  wide-mouth'd  heads  upon  the 

spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  :  the  barking  cur 
Made   her   cheek   flame :    her   palfrey's 

footfall  shot 
Light  horrors  thro'  her  pulses  ;  tlie  blind 

walls 
Were   full    of  chinks   and   holes  ;    and 

overhead 


Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared  :  but 

she 
Not  less  thro'  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flower'd  elder-thicket  from  the 

field 
Gleam  thro'  the  Gothic  archways  in  the 

wall. 
Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with 

chastity  : 
And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless 

earth, 
The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come. 
Boring  a  little  augur-hole  in  fear, 
Peep'd  —  but  his  eyes,  before  they  had 

their  will, 
Were  shrivell'd  into  darkness  in  his  head, 
And  dropt  before  him.     So  the  Powers, 

who  wait 
On  noble  deeds,  cancell'd  a  sense  misused ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass'd  :  and  all 

at  once, 
With  twelve  gi'eat  shocks  of  sound,  the 

shameless  noon 
Was  clasli'd  and  hammer'd  from  a  hun- 
dred towers. 
One  after  one  :  but  even  then  she  gain'd 
Her  bower  ;  whence  reissuing,  robed  and 

crown'd. 
To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away 
And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 

A  STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 
' '  Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 
Were  it  not  better  not  to  be  ?  " 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I  said  ; 
"  Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made." 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply  ; 

"  To-day  1  saw  the  dragon-fly 

Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie, 

"  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk  :  from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

"  He  dried  his  wings  :  like  gauze  they 

grew : 
Thro'  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 

I  .said,  "When  first  the  world  began, 
Young  Nature  thro'  five  cycles  ran, 
Aud  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 


THE   TWO    VOICES. 


93 


'  Then  lied  s!ie  to  her  inmost  bower,  and  there 
Unclasp'd  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt." 


•*  She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 
Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast." 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied  ; 

"  Self- blinded  are  j'ou  by  your  pride  : 

Look  up  thro'  night  :  the  world  is  wide. 

"  This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 

That  in  a  boundless  universe 

Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 

•'Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and  fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres  ? " 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind  : 

"  Tho'  thou  wert  scatter' d  to  the  wind. 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind." 


Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall  r 
"  No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all." 

To  which  he  answer'd  scofRngly  ; 

"  Good  soul  !  suppose  I  grant  it  thee, 

Who  '11  weep  for  thy  deficiency  ? 

"Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense, 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 

Is  canceli'd  in  the  world  of  sense  ?  " 

I    would  have  said,    "Thou   canst   noi 

know," 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work'd  below, 
Rain'd  thro'  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me  : 
"  Thou  art  so  steep'd  in  misery, 
Surely  't  were  better  not  to  be. 


94 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 


"  Thine,  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 
Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep  : 
Thou   canst  not   think,  but   thou  wilt 
weep." 

I  said,  "  The  years  with  change  advance  : 
If  I  make  dark  my  countenance, 
I  shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

"Some  turn  this  sicknessyet  might  take, 
Ev'n  yet."    But  he:   "What  drug  can 

make 
A  wither'd  palsy  cease  to  shake  ? " 

I  wept,  "Tho'  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  aliout  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow  ; 

"  Andmen,  thro'  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought. 
Will  learn  new  things  when  1  am  not." 

"Yet,"  said  the  secret  voice,  "sometime, 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  gi-ass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

"Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for  light. 
Rapt  after  heaven's  starry  flight. 
Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and  night. 

"  Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells. 
The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells. 
The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells." 

I  said  that  "all  the  years  invent ; 
Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

"  Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 
Tho'  watching  from  a  ruin'd  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  ? " 

"The  highest-mounted  mind,"  he  said, 
"  Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

"Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain. 
Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  ? 

"  Or  makethat  morn,  from  his  cold  crown 
And  crystal  silence  creejjing  down. 
Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town  ? 

"  Forerun  thy  peers-,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream'd  not  yet. 


"  Thou  hast  not  gain'd  a  real  height, 
Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 
Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

"  'T  were  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak, 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak. 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

"  Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  resign' d, 

A  healthy  frame,  a  quiet  mind." 

I  said,  "  When  I  am  gone  away, 
'  He  dared  not  tarry,'  men  will  say, 
Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay.' 

"This  is  more  vile,"  he  made  reply, 
"  To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and  sigh, 
Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

' '  Sick  art  thou  —  a  divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a  coward  still. 

"  Do  men  love  thee  ?  Art  thou  so  bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  ? 

"The  memory  of  the  wither'd  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner'd  Autumn-sheaf. 

"Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust ; 
The  right  ear,  that  is  till'd  with  dust, 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just." 

"Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,"  I  cried, 
"  Fiom  emptiness  and  the  waste  wide 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

"Nay  —  rather  yet  that  I  could  raise 
One  hojte  that  warm'd  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I  yearn'd  for  human  praise. 

"  When,  M'ide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongue, 
Among  the  tents  I  paused  and  sung, 
The  distant  battle  flash'd  and  rung. 

"  I  sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear, 
And,  sitting,  burnish'd  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear  — 

"  Waiting  to  strive  a  hap]iy  strife. 
To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife. 
And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

"  Some  hidden  principle  to  move, 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove, 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love  — 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 


95 


"  As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  si)ace  for  every  human  doubt, 
That  the  wh'le  raiud  miglit  orb  about  — 

"To  search  thro'  all  I  felt  or  saw. 
The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  awe, 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law  : 

"  At  least,  not  rotting  like  a  weed, 
IJut,  having  sown  some  generous  seed. 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 

"  To  ])ass,  when  Life  her  light  witiidraws, 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause, 
Nor  in  a  merely  seltish  cause  — 

"In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  own. 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor'd,  known, 
And  like  a  waiTior  overthrown  ; 

"  Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  tears, 
When,  soii'd  with  noble  dust,  lie  hears 
His  country's  war-song  thrill  his  ears  : 

"  Then  dying  of  a  mortal  stroke, 
Wliat  time  the  foemau's  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roU'd  in  smoke." 

"  Yea  ! "  said  the  voice,  "thy  dream  was 


While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 
It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

"  If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  the  flower. 
Who  is  it  that  could  live  an  hour  ? 

"  Then  comes  the  cheek,  the  change,  the 

fall, 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

"  Yet  hadst  thou,  thro'  enduring  pain, 
Link'd  month  to  month  with  such  a  chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

' '  Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and  birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 
So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 

"  That    men    with    knowledge    merely 

play'd, 
I  told  thee  —  hardly  nigher  made, 
Tho'  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 


"  For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  diflerent  threads,  and  late  and  soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  owu  cocoon. 

"Cry,  faint  not :  either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 
Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

"Cry,  faintnot,  climb :  thesummitsslope 
Beyond  the  furthest  (lights  of  hope. 
Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope 

"  Sometimes  a  little  corner  shines. 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 

A  gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

' '  I  will  go  forward,  sayest  thou, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 
Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

"If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique, 
Thou  know' St  not.     Shadows  thou  dost 

strike. 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like  ; 

"And  owning  but  a  little  more 
Tliaii  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor. 
Calling  thyself  a  little  lower 

"  Than  angels.    Cease  to  wail  and  brawl  1 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl  ? 
There  is  one  remedy  for  all." 

"0  dull,  one-sided  voice,"  said  I, 
"  Wilt  thou  make  everything  a  lie. 
To  flatter  me  that  1  may  die  ? 

"  I  know  that  age  to  age  succeeds. 
Blowing  a  noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 
A  dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

"  1  cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

"  Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream 
Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam, 
And  did  not  dream  it  was  a  dream  ; 

' '  But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 
Ev'n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 
The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — • 


"  Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  blind,     ' '  AVhich  did  accomplish  their  desire, 
Named  man,  mayhopesometruthtofind,  '  Bore  and  forebore,  and  did  not  tire. 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind.  1  Like  Stephen,  an  anquenched  fire. 


96 


THE   TWO   VOICES. 


"  He  heeded  not  reviling  tones, 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 

Tho'  cursed  and  scorn'd,  and  bruised  with 

stones  : 

"  But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace. 
He  pray'd,  and  from  a  hapjjy  place 
God's  glory  smote  him  on  the  face." 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt  : 

"  Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were  fix'd, 

The  elements  were  kindlier  mix'd." 

I  said,  "  I  toil  beneath  the  curse, 
But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 
1  fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 

"And  that,  in  .seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 
1  knit  a  hundred  others  new  : 

"  Or  that  tliis  anguish  fleeting  hence, 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense. 
Be  fix'd  and  froz'n  to  permanence  : 

"  For  I  go,  weak  from  suffering  hei'e  ; 
Naked  1  go,  and  void  of  cheer  : 
What  is  it  that  I  may  not  fear  ? " 

"Consider  well,"  the  voice  replied, 

"  Hisface,  thattwohours  since  hath  died ; 

Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain  or  pride  ? 

"  Will  he  obey  when  one  commands  ? 
Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands  ? 
He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

"His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast  : 
There  is  no  other  thing  express'd 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

"  His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek  : 
Tho'  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek, 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

"  His  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss'd,  taking  his,  last  embrace, 
Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race  — 

"  His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame,  — 
But  he  is  chill  to  i)raise  or  blame. 

"  He  will  not  hear  the  north-wind  rave, 
Nor,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 


"  High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim  : 
About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim ; 
The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him." 

"If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,"  I  said, 
"These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and 

dread, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

"The  sap  dries  up  :  the  plant  declines. 

A  dee]jer  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  1  not  Death  ?  the  outward  signs  ? 

"  I  found  him  when  my  years  were  few  ; 
A  shadow  on  the  graves  I  knew. 
And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

' '  From  grave  to  grave  the  shadow  crept : 
In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept : 
Touch'd  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

"The  simple  senses  crown'd  his  head  : 
'Omega  !  thou  art  Lord,'  they  said, 
*  We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.' 

"  Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease, 
Should  that  ])lain  fact,  as  taught  by  these, 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 

"  Who  forged  that  other  influence, 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence. 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ? 

"  He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 
That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise, 
Not  simjjle  as  a  thing  that  dies. 

"  Here  .sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly : 
His  heart  forebodes  a  mystery  : 
He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

"That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 
He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

"  He  seems  to  hear  a  Heavenly  Friend 
And  thro'  thick  veils  to  ajiprehend 
A  labor  woiking  to  an  end. 

"  The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  :  nurny  things  perplex, 
With  motions,  checks,  and  counterchecks 

"  He  knows  a  baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something  good, 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 


THE   TWO    VOICES. 


97 


"Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn, 
Half  shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

"Ah  !  sure  within  him  and  without, 
Could  his  dark  wisdom  tind  it  out. 
There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

"  But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 
With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain. 
Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

"  The  doubt  would  rest,  I  dare  not  solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 
Assurance  only  breeds  resolve." 

As  when  a  billow,  blown  against. 

Falls  back,  the  voice  with  which  I  fenced 

A  little  ceased,  but  recommenced. 

"  Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  play  M 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 
A  merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  ; 

"A  merry  boy  they  called  him  then. 
He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

"  Before  the  little  ducts  began 

To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 

Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man  : 

"  Who  took  a  wife,  who  rear'd  his  race. 
Whose  wrinkles  gather'd  on  his  face. 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days  : 

"  A  life  of  nothings,  nothing  worth, 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  h:s  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  !  " 

"  These  words,"  I  said,  "  are  like  the  rest. 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  be.st 
A  vague  suspicion  of  the  breast  : 

"  But  if  I  grant,  thou  might' st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — 
That  to  begin  implies  to  end  ; 

"  Yet  how  should  I  for  certain  hold. 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold. 
That  I  first  was  in  human  mould  ? 

"  I  cannot  make  this  matter  plain. 
But  I  would  shoot,  howe'er  in  vain, 
A  random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

"  It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found, 
Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 


' '  As  old  mythologies  relate, 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 

Tlie  slipping  thro'  from  state  to  state. 

"  As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  ha])pens  then, 
Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

"  So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 

As  one  before,  remember  much. 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and  touch. 

' '  But,  if  I  lapsed  from  nobler  place, 
Some  legend  of  a  fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace  ; 

' '  Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 

In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height, 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of  night. 

"  Or  if  thro'  lower  lives  I  came  — 
Tho'  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

"  1  might  forget  my  weaker  lot  ; 
For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot  ? 
The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

"  And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind, 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined. 
Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

' '  Much  more,  if  first  I  floated  free, 
As  naked  essence,  must  I  be 
1  ncompetent  of  memory  : 

"  For  memory  dealing  but  with  time, 
And  he  with  matter,  should  she  climlj 
Beyond  her  own  material  jirime  ? 

"  Moreover,  something  is  or  seems, 
That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

"  Of  something  felt,  like  something  here 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where  ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare." 

Thestill  voicelaugh'd.  "I  talk,"  said  he, 
"  Not  Avith  thy  dreams.  Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a  reality." 

"But  thou,"  said  I,    "  hast  miss'd  thy 

mark, 
Who  sought'st  to  wreck  my  mortal  ark. 
By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 


08 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


•'  Why  not  set  forth,  if  I  should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  okl  soul  in  organs  new  ? 

"Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith, 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 

Has  ever  truly  long'd  for  death. 

'"Tis  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 

0  life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant  ; 
More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I  want." 

1  ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 
Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn, 
"  Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn." 

And  I  arose,  and  I  released 

The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 

With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften'd  airs  that  blowing  steal, 
When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal, 
The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God's  house  the  people  prest : 
Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest, 
Each  enter'd  like  a  welcome  guest. 

One  walk'd  between  his  wife  and  child, 
With  measured  footfall  firm  and  mild. 
And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean'd  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good, 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure. 
The  little  maiden  walk'd  demure, 
Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  made  unity  so  sweet. 
My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 
Eemembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I  blest  them,  and  they  wander'd  on  ; 
I  spoke,  but  answer  came  there  none  : 
The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

!  A  second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

A  little  whisper  silver-clear, 
'  A  murmur,  "Be  of  better  cheer." 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A  notice  faintly  understood, 

"  I  see  the  end,  and  know  the  good." 

A  little  hint  to  solace  woe, 

A  hint,  a  whisper  breathing  low, 

"I  may  not  speak  of  what  I  know." 


Like  an  jEolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes : 

Such  seem'd  the  whisper  at  my  side  • 
"What  isitthou  knowest,  sweet  voice  ? 

I  cried. 
"  A  hidden  hope,"  the  voice  replied  : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a  jiower 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the  shower 

To  feel,  altho'  no  tongue  can  prove, 
That  every  cloud,  that  .spreads  above 
And  veUeth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I  Avent, 
And  Nature's  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I  wonder'd  at  the  bounteous  hours. 
The  slow  result  of  winter  showers  : 
You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  forflowers, 

I  wonder'd,  Avliile  I  paced  along  : 

The  woods  were  fill'd  so  full  with  song, 

There  seem'd  no  room  for  sejise  of  wrong. 

So  variou.sly  seem'd  all  things  wrought, 
I  marvell'd  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought  ; 

And  wherefore  rather  I  made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice, 
Thau  him  that  said,  "  Rejoice  !  rejoice  1" 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

0  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak  : 

A  pleasant  hour  has  past  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek, 

The  dewy  sister-eyelids  \a.j. 
As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I  went  thro'  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming  —  and,  behind, 

A  summer  cris])  with  .shining  woods. 
And  I  too  dream'd,  until  at  last 

Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm, 
The  reflex  of  a  legend  past. 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 
And  would  j'ou  have  the  thought  I  had, 

And  see  the  vision  that  I  saw. 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


99 


Then  take  the  broidery-fraine,  and  add 
A  crimson  to  the  (juaint  Macaw, 

And  I  will  tell  it.     Tuin  your  face, 
Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye  — 

The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their  place, 
And  order'd  words  asunder  Uy. 

THE   SLEEPING   PALACE. 


The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 

Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy  plains ; 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  alon^  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl'd, 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadowscome. 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 

To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 

On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 
The  fountain  to  his  place  returns 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  thi;  tower. 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  tires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 


Roof-haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs  : 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay'd. 
The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 

Droop  sleepily  :  no  sound  is  inudc, 
Not  even  of  a  gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a  jncture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings, 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 


Here  sits  the  Butler  with  a  flask 

Between  his  knees,  half-drain'd  ;  and 
there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task. 

The  nraid-of-honor  blooming  fair  ; 
The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his  : 

Her  lips  are  sever'd  as  to  speak  : 
His  own  are  pouted  to  a  kiss  : 

The  blush  is  fix  d  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass. 
The  beams,  that  thro'  the  Oriel  shine, 

Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 
And  beaker  brimm'd  with  noble  wine 


Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps, 
Grave  faces  gather'd  in  a  ring. 

His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 
He  must  have  been  a  jovial  king. 


All  round  a  hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 

At  distance  like  a  little  wood  ; 
Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes. 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood  ; 
All  creeping  plants,  a  wall  of  green 

Close-matted,  burr  and  brake  and  brier, 
And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 

High  up,  the  topmost  palace-spire. 


When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again. 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men  ? 
Here  all  things  in  their  j)lace  remain, 

As  all  were  order'd,  ages  since. 
Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 

And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 

THE   SLEEPI.NG    BEAUTY. 


Year  after  year  un'io  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 
Across  the  i)urpled  coverlet, 

The  maiden's  jet-black  hair  has  grown, 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a  braid  of  pearl : 
The  slumbrous  ligiit  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


The  silk  star-broider'd  coverlid 

Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languiilly  ever  ;  and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward  roll'd, 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadow'd  arm 

"With  bracelets  of  tlu'  diamond  bright : 
Her  constant  beauty  dotli  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 


She  sleeps  :  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr'd 

That  He  upon  her  cliaiiued  heart. 
She  sleejjs  :  on  either  hand  n})swells 

The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  prest : 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 


100 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


THE   ARRIVAL. 


All  precious  things,  discover'd  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth  ; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 
4  fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes. 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 

II. 
The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 
Are  wither'd  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scatter'd  blanching  on  the  gi-ass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead  : 

' '  The}'  perish'd  in  their  daring  deeds. " 
This  proverb  flashes  thro'  his  head, 

"The  many  fail  :  the  one  succeeds." 


He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he  seeks  : 

He  breaks  the  hedge  :  he  enters  there  : 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks  : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair  ; 
"^or  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 

About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 

J^  tid  whisper'd  voices  at  his  ear. 

IV. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind  : 

The  JIagic  Music  in  his  lieart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 

The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 
H's  spirit  flutters  like  a  lark. 

He  stoops  —  to  kiss  her  —  on  his  knee. 
"  Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark. 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be  !  " 

THF    REVIVAL. 

I. 
.4.  TOUCH,  a  kiss  !   the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a  noise  of  striking  clocks. 
And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt. 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks  ; 
A  fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A  breeze  thro"  all  the  garden  swept, 
A  sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall. 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 


The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew. 
The  butler  drank,  the  steward  sciawl'd, 


The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew. 
The    parrot    scream'd,    the    peacock 
squall'd. 
The  maid  and  page  renew'd  their  strife, 
The  palace   bang'd,  and   buzz'd  and 
clackt. 
And  all  tlie  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash'd  downward  in  a  cataract. 


And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke. 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear'd. 
And  yaM'u'd,  and  rubb'd  his  face,  and 
sjioke, 

"  By  holy  rood,  a  royal  beard  ! 
How  say  you  ?  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 
The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

'T  was  but  an  after-dinner's  nap. 


"  Pardy,"  return'd  the  king,  "  but  still 

My  joints  are  somewhat  stifl"  or  so. 
My  lord,  and  shall  Me  pass  the  bill 

I  mention'd  half  an  hour  ago  ? " 
The  cliancellor,  .sedate  and  vain. 

In  courteous  words  return'd  reply  : 
But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 


THE  DEPARTURE. 


And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant. 

And  lound  her  waist  she  felt  it  folu, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old  : 
Across  tiie  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyonc'i  their  utmost  purple  rim. 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow'd  him. 


"  I  'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

0  love,  for  such  another  kiss"  ; 
"0  wake  for  ever,  !ove,"  .she  hears, 

"  0  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this.  ■ 
And  o'er  them  many  a  sliding  star. 

And  many  a  merry  wind  vras  borne. 
And,  stream'd  thro'  many  a  golden  bar 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 


"  0  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleeji  !  " 
"0  happy  .sleep,  that  lightly  fled  ' 


'He  stoops --to  kiss  her  —  on  his  knee."     See  page  loo. 


THE   DAY-DREAM. 


101 


How  say  you  f  we  have  slept,  my  lords. 
My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap." 


"  0  hnppy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  !  " 
"Olove,  thy  kiss  wouhhvakethedeail ! ' 

And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 
Of  vapor  buoy'd  tlie  crescent-bark, 

And,  rapt  tliro'  many  a  rosy  change, 
The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 


"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where  ? ' 
"  0  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  pur]ile  rin-., 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro'  all  the  world  she  follow'cl  him. 


So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 
And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 


Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say, 
What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 

0,  to  what  uses  shall  wc.  put 

The  wildweed-flower  that  simply  blows  ? 

And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose  ? 


But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead. 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 
According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A  meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 
And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend  ; 
So  '  t  were  to  cramp  its  -use,  if  I 

Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 


L  ENVOI. 
I. 

You  shake  your  head.    A  random  string 
Your  finer  female  sense  offends, 


102 


AMPHION. 


Well  —  were  it  not  a  pleasant  tiling 

To  fall  asleep  with  all  one's  friends  ; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 

To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men  ; 
And  every  hundred  j^ears  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again  ; 
To  sleep  thro'  terms  of  mighty  wars, 

And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more. 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars, 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore  ; 
And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show, 

The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  Iiours, 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow, 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers  ; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes  ; 
For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 


So  sleeping,  so  aroused  from  sleep 
Thro'  sunny  decads  new  and  strange, 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  and  quintessence  of  change. 


Ah,  yet  would  I  —  and  would  I  might  ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 
Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 

That  1  might  kiss  those  eyes  awake  ! 
For,  am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong, 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  care  ; 
You  'd  have  my  moral  from  the  song. 

And  I  will  take  my  pleasure  there  : 
And,  am  I  right  or  am  I  wrong. 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro'  and  thro'. 
To  search  a  meaning  for  the  song, 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you  ; 
Nor  finds  a  closer  truth  than  this 

All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl'd, 
And  evermore  a  costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 


For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 

Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour. 
And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 

In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower. 
What   eyes,    like   thine,  have  waken'd 
hopes? 

What  lips,  like  thine,  so  sweetly  join'd  ? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 

The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind  ; 
Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved, 

Yet  sleeps  a  dreamless  sleep  to  me  ; 
A  sleep  by  kisses  undissolved. 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see  : 


But  break  it.     In  the  name  of  wife, 
And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  givej 

Are  clasp'd  the  moral  of  thy  life. 
And  that  for  which  I  care  to  live. 


So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And,  if  you  find  a  meaning  there, 
0  whisper  to  your  glass,  and  say, 

"What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me  fair  ? ' 
What  wonder  I  M'as  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight 
Like  long-tail'd  birds  of  Paradise, 

That  float  thro'  Heaven,  and  cannot 
light  ? 
Or  old-world  trains,  upheld  at  court 

By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 
But  take  it  ■ —  earnest  wed  with  sport, 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

My  father  left  a  park  to  me, 

But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 
A  garden  too  with  scarce  a  tree, 

And  waster  than  a  warren  : 
Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call. 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land, 
And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

0  had  I  lived  when  song  was  great 

In  days  of  old  Amphion, 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate. 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  ! 
And  had  1  lived  when  song  was  gi'eat. 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber. 
And  ta'en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  ! 

'T  is  said  he  had  a  tuneful  tongue, 

Such  happy  intonation, 
Wlierever  he  sat  down  and  sung 

He  left  a  small  plantation  ; 
Wherever  in  a  lonely  grove 

He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes. 
The  gouty  oak  began  to  move. 

And  flounder  into  hornpiiies. 

The  mountain  stirr'd  its  bushy  crown, 

And,  as  tradition  teaches. 
Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 

Coquetting  with  young  beeches  ; 


ST.   AGNES'   EVE. 


103 


And  bi'iony-viiie  and  ivy-wreath 
Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming, 

And  from  the  vaHeys  underneath 
Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  linden  broke  her  ranks  and  rent 

The  woodbine  wreaths  that  bind  her, 
And  down  the  middle  buzz  !  she  went 

With  all  her  bees  behind  her  : 
riie  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded, 
The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 

By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shot  alder  from  the  wave, 

Came  yews,  a  dismal  coterie  ; 
Each  pluck'd  his  one  foot  from  the  grave, 

Poussetting  with  a  sloe-tree  : 
Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine. 

The  vine  stream'd  out  to  follow, 
And,  sweating  rosin,  plum])'d  the  pine 

From  many  a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  was  n't  it  a  sight  to  see, 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended. 
Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree, 

The  country-side  descended  ; 
And  shepherils  from  the  mountain-eaves 

Look'd    down,     half -pleased,     half- 
frighten'd. 
As  dash'd  about  the  drunken  leaves 

The  random  sun.shine  ligliten'd  ! 

0,  nature  first  was  fresh  to  men, 

And  wanton  without  measure  ; 
So  youthful  and  .so  flexile  then. 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 
Twang  out,  my  fiddle  !  shake  the  twigs  ! 

And  make  her  dance  attendance  ; 
Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stifi-set  sprigs, 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 

'T  is  vain  !  in  such  a  brassy  age 

1  could  not  move  a  thistle  ; 
The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 

Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle  ; 
Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 

With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 
A  jackass  heehaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I  hear  ?  a  sound 
Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading  ; 

O  Lord  !  —  't  is  in  my  neighbor's  ground, 
The  modern  Muses  reading. 

They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

Aiid  Works  on  Gardening  thro'  there, 


And  Methods  of  ti'ansplanting  trees, 
To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither'd  Misses  !  how  they  prose 

O'er  books  of  travell'd  seamen. 
And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 

From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 
They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut, 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 
By  squares  of  tropic  summer  sluit 

And  warm'd  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho'  fed  with  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy  ; 
Half-conscious  of  the  garden-squirt, 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 
Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 

That  blows  ujion  its  mountain, 
The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 

Beside  its  native  fountain. 

.Vnd  I  must  work  thro'  months  of  toil. 

And  years  of  cultivation. 
Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 

To  grow  my  own  plantation. 
I  '11  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I  will  not  vex  my  bosom  : 
Enough  if  at  tlie  end  of  all 

A  little  garden  blossom. 


ST.    AGNES'   EVE. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 

Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 
Illy  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 

Jlay  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 
The  shatlows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowj'  .sward. 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
]\Iake  Thou  niy  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies. 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark 

To  yonder  shining  giound  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark. 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am. 

To  that  1  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  tlie  heavens,  0  Lord  !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen. 
Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a  glittering  star. 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 


104 


SIK   GALAHAD. 


'  My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes  : 
May  my  soul  follow  soon !  " 


He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strews  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  witliin 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 
A  light  uj)on  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves"the  casques  of  men. 
My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 


My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trum]iet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel. 
The    splinter'd  sjiear-shafts    ci-ack    and 

fly. 

The  horse  and  rider  reel  : 
They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands. 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall ! 
For  them  1  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall  : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

Mykueesarebow'din  crypt  and  shrine; 


EDWARD   GRAY. 


105 


I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mini;. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

1  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride  ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there  ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  aie  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Pair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean. 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings. 

And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
1  leap  on  board  :  no  helmsman  steere  : 

I  float  till  all  is  dark. 
A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail  : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white. 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  ray  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go. 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn. 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs  from  brand  and 
mail  ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads. 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
1  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height  ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A.  maiden  knight  —  to  me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ;' 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease. 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand. 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear. 


This   weight  and  size,   this   heart   and 
eyes. 
Are  touch' d,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
"  0  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prizi'.  is  near." 
So  pass  1  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide. 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD   GRAY. 

SwEKT  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 

Jlet  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 
"  And  have  you  lost  your  heart  ?  "  sh« 
said  ; 
"  And  are  you  married  yet,  Edwar 
Gray?" 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  1  turn'd  away  : 

"Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 

""  Ellen  ,A.dair  she  loved  me  well. 

Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will  : 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold  ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the 
sea  ; 
Fill'd  I  was  with  folly  and  spite, 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

"Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said  ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day  : 
'You're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

'  To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.' 

' '  There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass  — 
Whisper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair  : 

T  repent  me  of  all  I  did  : 

Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair  ! ' 

"Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 

'  Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ; 
And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  ! 


106  WILL  WATEllPROOF'S   LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


;•*  AH-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 
Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail." 


"  Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  flv,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree  : 

But  1  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

"  Bitterly  wejit  I  over  the  stone  : 
Bitterly  weej)ing  I  turn'd  away  : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ! 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  !  " 


WILL    "WATERPROOF'S    LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE   AT   THE   COCK. 

O  PLUMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I  mo.st  resort, 
How  goes  the  time  ?    -'T  is  hve  o'clock. 

Go  fetch  a  pint  of  port : 


But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 
You  set  before  chance-comers, 

But  such  wlio.se  father-grape  grew  fat 
On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  !Miise, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 
And  whis])er  lovely  words,  and  use 

Her  influence  on  the  mind, 
To  make  me  A\'rite  my  random  rhymes, 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten  ; 
Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times, 

Till  all  be  ri]>e  and  rotten. 

1  pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 

Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 
And  laj's  it  thrice  upon  my  lips, 

These  favor'd  lips  of  mine  ; 
Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 

New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom. 


WILL  WATEEPROOF'S  LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


lOT 


And  barren  commonplaces  break 
In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I  pledge  her  silent  at  the  board  ; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 
And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 

Of  all  I  felt  and  feel. 
Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans, 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 
And  that  child's  lieart  within  the  man's 

Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 

Thro'  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns, 

By  many  pleasant  ways, 
Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 

The  current  of  my  days  : 
I  kiss  tlie  lips  1  once  have  kiss'd  ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer  ; 
And  softly,  thro'  a  vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I  grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 

Unboding  critic-pen. 
Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vo.ves  ])ublic  men. 
Who  hold  tlieir  hands  to  all,  and  cry 

For  tliat  which  all  deny  them  — 
Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry, 

And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho'  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho'  fortune  clip  my  wings, 
I  will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 

Half- views  of  men  and  things. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood  ; 

There  must  be  stormy  weather  ; 
But  for  some  true  result  of  good 

All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes  ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new  ; 
Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes. 

Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 
Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons, 
As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 

We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid  ; 

With  fair  horizons  bound  : 
This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and  shade 

Comes  out,  a  perfect  round. 
High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven's  third  story, 
1  look  at  all  things  as  they  are. 

But  thro'  a  kind  of  gloiy. 


Head-waiter,  honor'd  by  the  guest 

Half-mused,  or  jceling  ripe, 
The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 

That  ever  came  from  pipe. 
But  tho'  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffer. 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my  peptics  ditfer  ? 

For  since  I  came  to  live  and  learn, 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  ]iower  to  turn 

Tiiis  wheel  within  ir.y  head, 
Which  bears  a  season'd  brain  about, 

Unsubject  to  confusion, 
Tho'  soak'd  and  saturate,  out  and  out, 

Thro'  every  convolution. 

For  I  am  of  a  numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay, 
Wliere  long  and  largely  we  carouse 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay  : 
Each,  month,  a  birthday  coming  on. 

We  drink  defying  trouble, 
Or  .sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one. 

And  then  we  drank  it  double  ; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept, 

Had  relish  iiery-new. 
Or,  elbow-deep  in  sawdust,  slept, 

As  old  as  Waterloo  ; 
Or  stow'd  (when  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers. 
Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 

The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer'd  to  my  call. 
She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this, 

Is  all-in-all  to  all  : 
She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat. 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker. 
Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 

Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 

The  waiter's  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  .stout. 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 
He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 

That  with  the  napkin  dally  ; 
I  think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

From  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  was  of  a  larger  egg 

Than  modern  poultry  drop, 
Stept  forward  on  a  firmer  leg. 

And  cramm'd  a  plumper  crop; 


108 


WILL   Wy'tTERPROOF  S   LYRICAL   MONOLOGUE. 


Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 
Crow'd  lustier  late  and  early, 

Sipt  wine  from  silver,  praising  God, 
And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A  private  life  was  all  his  joy. 

Till  in  a  court  he  saw 
A  soraething-pottle-bodied  boy, 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  : 
He  stoop'd  and  clutch'd  him,  fairandgood. 

Flew  over  roof  ami  casement  : 
His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 

Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe  and  spire, 

And  foUow'd  with  acclaims, 
A  sign  to  many  a  staring  shire, 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 
Right  down  by  smoky  Paul's  they  bore. 

Till,  whei-e  the  street  grows  straitei'. 
One  fix'd  for  ever  at  the  door. 

And  one  became  head- waiter. 


B\it  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a  legend  blow 

Among  the  chops  and  steaks  ! 
'T  is  but  a  steward  of  the  can, 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common  ; 
As  just  and  mere  a  serving-man 

As  any,  born  of  woman. 

I  ranged  too  high  :  what  draws  me  down 

Into  the  common  day  ? 
Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I  shall  have  to  pay  ? 
For,  something  duller  than  at  first. 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 
I  sit  (my  empty  glass  reversed). 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife 

I  take  myself  to  task  ; 
Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 

I  leave  an  empty  flask  : 
For  I  had  hope,  by  something  rare. 

To  prove  myself  a  poet  : 
But,  while  I  plan  and  plan,  my  hair 

Is  gray  before  I  know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began, 

Till  they  be  gather' d  up  ; 
The  tnith,  that  flies  the  flowing  can. 

Will  haimt  the  vacant  cup  : 
And  others'  follies  teach  us  not, 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches  ; 


And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 
Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 
Bat  for  my  pleasant  hour,  't  is  gone, 

'T  is  gone,  and  let  it  go. 
'T  is  gone  :  a  thousand  such  have  slipt 

Away  from  my  embraces. 
And  fall'n  into  the  dusty  crypt 

Of  darken'd  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  !  thy  betters  went 

Long  since,  and  came  no  more  ; 
With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 

From  many  a  tavern-door. 
With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters  ; 
The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits  — 

Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet's  words  and  looks 

Had  yet  their  native  glow  : 
Nor  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 

Had  made  him  talk  for  show  ; 
But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm'd. 

He  flash' d  his  random  speeches  ; 
Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm'd 

His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  for  ever  with  the  past. 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 
For   should  I  jirize  thee,  couldst   thou 
last. 

At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 
I  hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass  r 

With  time  I  will  not  quarrel : 
It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 

That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 

Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here. 

To  which  I  most  resoii, 
I  too  must  part  :  I  hold  thee  dear 

For  this  good  pint  of  port. 
For  this,  thou  shalt  from  all  things  suck 

Mai'row  of  mirth  and  laughter  ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  thou  move,  good  luck 

Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence. 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots  : 
Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 

Go  down  among  the  pots  : 
Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 

In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners. 
Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 

Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN  GREECE. 


109 


We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 

AVould  quarrel  with  our  lot  ; 
Thy  care  is,  under  polish'd  tins, 

To  serve  the  hot-;uid-hot  ; 
To  come  and  go,  and  come  again. 

Returning  like  the  pewit. 
And  watch'd  by  silent  gentlemen, 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 

The  thick-set  hazel  dies  ; 
Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  ti-ead 

The  corners  of  thine  eyes  : 
Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 

Our  changeful  e([uinoxes. 
Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest. 

Shall  call  thee  from  the  bo.xes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 

To  pace  the  gritted  floor. 
And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 

Of  life,  shalt  earn  no  more  ; 
No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 

Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven  : 
But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A  pint-pot,  neatly  graven. 


TO 


AFTER    READING    A    LIFE    AND    LETTERS. 

**  Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones." 

Shakgsfieare's  Epitap/i. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name, 
If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now. 
And  gain'd  a  laurel  for  your  brow 

Of  sounder  leaf  than  I  can  claim  ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 
A  life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro'  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A  deedful  life,  a  silent  voice  : 

And  you  have  miss'd  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet's  crown  : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 

Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old. 
But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cohl 

Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry  : 

"  Proclaim  the  faults  he  Would  not  show  : 
Break  lock  and  seal  :  betra}'  the  trust  : 
Keep  nothing  sacred  :  't  is  but  just 

The  many -headed  beast  should  know." 


Ah  shameless  !  for  he  did  but  sing 
A  song  that  pleased  us  from  its  wortn  ; 
No  public  lite  was  his  on  earth. 

No  blazon'd  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best  : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 
My  Shakespeare's  curse  on  clown  and 
knave 

^Vho  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier. 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 

And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Gloiy's  temple-gates, 
For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 

To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd  ! 


TO    E.    L.,    ON    HIS    TRAVELS  IN 
GREECE. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 
The  long  divine  Peneian  pass, 

The  vast  Aki'okeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Atlios,  all  things  fair, 
With  such  a  pencil,  such  a  pen, 
You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I  read  and  felt  that  I  was  there  : 

And  trust  me  while  I  turii'd  the  page. 
And  track' d  you  still  on  classic  ground, 
I  gi-ew  in  gladness  till  I  found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour'd 

And  glisten'd  —  here  and  there  alone 
The    broad-limb'd   Gods    at    random 
thrown 

By  fountain-urns  ;  —  and  Naiads  oar'd 

A  glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars  ;  on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell  ; 

And  many  a  slope  was  rich  in  bloom 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks, 
To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks. 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


no 


Lady  glare. 


LADY   CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Rx)naid  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 
Lovers  long-betroth'd  were  they  : 

They  two  will  wed  the  nioiiow  morn  : 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair 

He  lo\  es  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clai'e. 


In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 
Said,  "  Who  was  tlris  that  went  froi 
thee  ? " 

"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"0  God  be  thank'd  !"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 
"That  all  comes  round  so  just  and 
fair : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  j'our  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse  ? " 
Said  Lady  Clare,    "  that  ye  speak  so 
wild  i " 


-  Wk  .r^ 


Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily  white  doe 
1  o  give  hii  coubin    Lidy  Clare  * 


THE   LORD   OF   BURLEIGH. 


Ill 


"As  God  s  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

"The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my 
breast  ; 

I  Rpeak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread  ! 
I  bnried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 
0  mother,"  she  said,  "if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nur.se, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

"  If  I  'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  1  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie. 

Pull  olF,  pull  off,  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  ? "  said  Alice  the 
nurse, 

"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 

"Tho'  I  should  die  to-night." 

"Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear  ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinn'd  for  thee." 
"0  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"  Yet  here  's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear. 
My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown. 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
Witli  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had 
brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  fo]low'd  her  all  the  way. 


Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower : 
' '  0  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ? " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  : 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Play  me  no  trick.s,"  said  Lord  Ronald- 
"  For  1  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed. 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

O  and  proudly  stobd  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fai' ; 
She  look'd  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laugh'd  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 
He  turn'd  and  kiss'd  her   where  she 
stood  : 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "the  next  in  blood— 

"If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


THE   LORD   OF   BURLEIGH. 

In  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

"  If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell. 
Maiden,  I  have  watch'd  thee  daily, 

And  I  think  thou  lov'st  me  well." 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

"There  is  none  I  love  like  thee." 
He  is  but  a  landscape-painter. 

And  a  village  maiden  she. 
He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter. 

Presses  his  without  reproof: 
Leads  her  to  the  village  altar. 

And  they  leave  her  father's  roof. 
"  I  can  make  no  marriage  present  : 

Little  can  I  give  my  wife. 
Love  will  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 

And  1  love  thee  more  than  life." 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 

See  the  lordly  castles  .stand  : 
Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing. 

Made  a  murmur  in  the  land. 
From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses, 

Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 
"  Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 

Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell." 


112 


SIR   lAUNCELOT   AND   QUEEN   GUINEVERE. 


So  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse, 
Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 

Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  ; 
Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady. 

Parks  and  order'd  gardens  great, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 
All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer  : 

Evermore  she  '  eems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  gi-owing  nearer, 

Where   tliey  twain   will   spend  their 
days. 
0  but  she  will  love  him  traly  ! 

He  shall  have  a  cheerful  home  ; 
She  will  order  all  things  duly, 

"When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 
Thus  her  heart  rejoices  gieatly, 

Till  a  gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately. 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns  ; 
Sees  a  mansion  more  majestic 

Than  all  those  she  saw  before  : 
Many  a  gallant  gay  domestic 

Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 
And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur. 

When  they  answer  to  his  call, 
While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer. 

Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 
And,  while  now  .she  wonders  blindly. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine, 
Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

"All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine." 
Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty. 
Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free, 
Not  a  lord  in  all  the  county 

Is  so  great  a  lord  as  he. 
All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sweet  face  from  brow  to  chin  : 
As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes. 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 
Then  her  countenance  all  over 

Pale  again  as  death  did  prove  : 
But  he  clasp'd  her  like  a  lover. 

And  he  cheer'd  her  soul  with  love. 
So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho'  at  times  her  spirit  sank  : 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 
And  a  gentle  consort  made  he. 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a  noble  lady. 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 
But  a  trouble  weigh'd  u]ion  her. 

And  perplex'd  her,  niglit  and  morn, 
With  the  burden  of  au  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 


Faint  she  gi'ew,  and  ever  fainter. 

And  she  murmur' d,  "  0,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-painter, 

Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  ! " 
So  she  droop'd  and  droop'd  before  him, 

Fading  slowly  from  his  side  : 
Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 

Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 

AValkiug  up  and  pacing  down. 
Deeply  mourn'd  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 

Burleigh diouse  by  Stamford-town. 
And  he  came  to  look  ujion  her. 

And  he  look'd  at  her  and  said, 
"  Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 

That  she  wore  when  she  was  wed." 
Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in. 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 


SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND   QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A    FR.^GMENT. 

Like  souls  that  bnlance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  u]ion  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen. 
The  topmost  elmtree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  liimet  piped  his  song  : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong: 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong ; 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan. 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year. 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer. 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

Sheseem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring  ; 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore. 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Closed  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net. 
Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 


THE   VISION   OF   SIN". 


113 


In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set : 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  .-;way'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A   FAREWELL. 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  : 

No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river  : 
No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree. 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver  ; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quivei' ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


THE   BEGGAR   MAID. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid  ; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say  : 
Bare-footed  came  the  beggar  maid 

Before  the  king  Cophetua. 
In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way  ; 
"  It  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  lords, 

"She  is  more  beautiful  than  day." 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies. 
She  in  her  poor  attire  was  seen  : 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 
One  lier  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 


So  sweet  a  face,  such  angel  grace, 
In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 

Cophetua  sware  a  royal  oath  : 

"This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen  I ' 


THE   VISION   OF   SIN. 


I  HAD  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late  ; 
A  youth  came  riding  toward  a  palace-gate. 
He  rode  a  horse  with  wings,  that  would 

have  flown. 
But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a  child  of  sin, 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in. 
Where  sat  a  company  with  heated  eyes, 
Expecting  when  a  fountain  should  arise  : 
A  sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips — ■ 
As  when  the  sun,  a  crescent  of  eclip.se. 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and 

capes  — ■ 
Suffused   them,    sitting,   lying,   languid 

shapes. 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine, 

and  piles  of  grapes. 


Then  methought  I  heard  a  mellow  sound. 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground  ; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 
Low  voluptuous  nrusic  winding  trembled, 
Wov'n    in   circles  :    they  that   heard  it 

.sigh'd, 
Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale, 
Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  re- 
plied ; 
Till  the  fountain  s]iouted,  showering  wide 
Sleet  of  diamond-drift  and  pearly  hail  ; 
Then  the  inusic  touch' d  the  gates  and 

died  ; 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seem'd  to  fail, 
Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale  ; 
Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 

waited. 
As  't  were  a  hundred-throated  nightin- 
gale. 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb'd 

and  palpitated  ; 
Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound. 
Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles, 
Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid  mazes, 
Flung  the  tonent  rainbow  round  : 
Then  they  started  from  their  places. 
Moved  with  violence,  changed  in  hue. 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 


14 


THE   VISION   OF   SIN. 


'  In  robe  and  crown  the  kin^  stept  down, 
To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way." 


Half-invisible  to  the  view, 
Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 
Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  bard  in  iierce  embraces. 
Like  to  Fnries,  like  to  Graces, 
Dasli'd  together  in  blinding  dew  : 
Till,  kill'd  with  some  luxurious  agony. 
The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


And  then  I  look'd  up  toward  a  mountain- 
tract, 
That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and 

lawn  : 
I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God.  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


Unheeded  :  and  detaching,  fold  by  fold, 
From   those   slill  heights,   and,   slowly 

drawing  near, 
A  vapor  heavy,  hueless,  formless,  cold. 
Came  floating  on  ior  many  a  month  and 

year, 
Unheeded  :  and  I  thought  I  would  have 

spoken. 
And  warn'd  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too 

late  : 
But,  as  in  dreams,  I  could  not.     Mine 

was  broken, 
When  that  cold  vapor  touch'd  the  palace 

gate. 
And  link'd  again.     I  saw  within  my  head 
A  gray  and  gap-tooth'd  man  as  lean  as 

death. 
Who  slowly  rode  across  a  wither'd  heath, 
And  lighted  at  a  ruin'd  inn,  and  said  • 


THE  VISION   OF   SIN. 


115 


rv. 

"  Wrinkled  ostler,  grim  and  thin  '. 

Here  is  custom  come  your  way  ; 
Take  my  brute,  and  lead  him  in. 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

*'  Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast  ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed  ; 
What ',  the  flower  of  life  is  past : 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

"  Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour. 
At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 

Let  us  have  a  quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 

"  I  am  old,  but  let  me  drink  ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine  ; 
1  remember,  when  1  think. 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

"  Wine  is  good  for  shrivell'd  lips, 
When  a  blanket  wraps  the  day, 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips. 
And  the  leaf  is  stamp'd  in  clay. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame, 
■     Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee  : 
What  care  I  for  any  name  ? 
What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

"  Let  me  screw  thee  up  a  peg  : 
Let  me  loose  thy  tongue  with  wine  : 

Callest  thou  that  thing  a  leg  ? 
Which  is  tliinnest  ?  thine  or  mine  ? 

' '  Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  works  : 
Thou  hast  been  a  sinner  too  : 

Ruin'd  trunks  on  wither'd  forks, 
Emj)ty  scarecrows,  I  and  you  ! 

"  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn  : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man. 
Every  moment  one  is  born. 

"  We  are  men  of  ruin'd  blood  ; 

Therefore  comes  it  we  are  wise. 
Fish  are  we  that  love  the  mud, 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

"Name  and  fame  !  to  fly  sublime 
Thro'  the  courts,  the  camps,  the  schools, 

Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  by  the  hands  of  fools 

"  Friendship  !  —  to  be  two  in  one  — 
Let  the  canting  liar  pack  ! 


Well  I  know,  wlien  I  am  gone. 
How  she  mouths  behind  my  back 

"  Virtue  !  —  to  be  good  and  just  — 
Every  heart,  when  sifted  well. 

Is  a  clot  of  wanner  dust, 

Mix'd  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell, 

"  Oh  !  we  two  as  well  can  look 
Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 

As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor's  wife. 

' '  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 
Have  a  rouse  before  the  morn : 

Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  bom. 

"  Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave  : 
They  are  fill'd  with  idle  spleen  ; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a  wave. 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 

"  He  that  roars  for  liberty 
Faster  binds  a  tyrant's  power  ; 

And  the  tyrant's  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 
All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up. 
And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

"Greet  her  with  applausive  breath. 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread  ; 

In  her  right  a  civic  wreath. 
In  her  left  a  human  head. 

"  No,  I  love  not  what  is  new  ; 

She  is  of  an  ancient  house  : 
And  1  think  we  kn9w  the  hue 

Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

"  Let  her  go  !  her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs  : 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

"Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 

Visions  of  a  perfect  State  : 
Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 

Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

' '  Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave. 

Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise, 
And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave 

Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 


116 


COME   NOT,   WHEN   I   AM   DEAD. 


"  Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue  ; 

Set  tliy  hcary  fancies  free  ; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 

Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"Change,  reverting  to  the  years, 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears, 
And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

"'Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love  — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance  ; 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move. 
And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

"  Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup  : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 
Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

•'  Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads  : 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens, 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  ! 

"  You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  ? 

Every  face,  however  full, 
Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat. 

Is  but  modell'd  on  a  skull. 

"  Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex  ! 

Tread  a  measure  on  the  stones, 
Madam  —  if  I  know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

"  No,  I  cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  —  nor  yet  your  lip  : 

All  the  more  do  I  admire 
Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"  Lo  !  God's  likeness  —  the  ground- 
plan— 

Neither  modell'd,  glazed,  or  framed  : 
Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man. 

Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed  ! 

"  Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a  little  breath  ! 

Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  ! 

"Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long, 
And  the  longer  night  is  near  : 

What  !  I  am  not  all  a's  wrong 
As  a  bitter  jest  is  dear. 


"  Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all, 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl'd ; 

Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

' '  Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  ! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man  : 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn." 


The  voice  grew  faint :  there  came  a  fur- 
ther change  : 

Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain- 
range  : 

Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced  wth 
\\'onns. 

And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms  ; 

By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum 
of  dross. 

Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch'd 
with  moss. 

Then  some  one  si)ake  :  ' '  Behold  !  it  was 
a  crime 

Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with 
time." 

Another  said  :  "  The  crime  of  sense  be- 
came 

The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame." 

And  one  :  "He  had  not  wholly  (piench'd 
his  power ; 

A  little  grain  of  conscience  made  him 
sour." 

At  last  I  heard  a  voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit,  "  Is  there  any  hope  ? " 

To  which  an  answer  peal'd  from  that 
high  land. 

But  iuatonguenoman could  understand  ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  with- 
drawn 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


Come  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And    vex    the    unhappy   dust    thou 
wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover 
cry; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 
I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest : 


THE   POET  S   SONG. 


117 


'  Break,  break,  break. 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  I ' 


Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  1  am  sick  of 
Time, 
And  I  desire  to  rest. 
pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where 
Hie: 
Go  by,  go  by. 


THE  EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  \i'alls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow  : 

From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 
0,  happy  planet,  eastward  go  ; 

Till  over  thy  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 

Tliat  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  smoothly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  stariy  light. 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  rouud  again  to  happy  night. 


BitE.\K,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  liis  sister  at  play  ! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  shijjs  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ; 

But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  1 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0  Sea  ! 
But  tlie  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

AVill  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE   POET'S   SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  tlie  Poet  arose, 
He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the 
street, 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the 
sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the 
wheat. 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  jdace, 
And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 


118 


THREE  SONNETS  TO  A  COQUETTE. 


That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her 
cloud, 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  und.er  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  clown  on 
his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey, 
And  the  nightingale  thought,  "I  have 
sung  many  songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay. 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


My  life  is  full  of  weary  days, 

But  good  tilings  have  not  kept  aloof. 

Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  : 
I  have  not  lack'd  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

And  now  shake  hands  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go  : 

Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far —  far  down,  but  1  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A   LEGEND   OF   THE   NAVV. 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 

Doeth  grievous  wrong. 
Deep  as  Hell  I  count  his  error, 

Let  him  hear  my  song. 
Brave  the  Captain  was  :  the  seamen 

Made  a  gallant  crew. 
Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen. 

Sailors  bold  and  true. 
But  they  hated  his  oppression. 

Stern  he  was  and  rash  ; 
So  for  every  light  transgression 

Doom'd  them  to  the  lash. 
Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 

Seem'd  the  Captain's  mood. 
Secret  wrath  like  smother'd  fuel 

Burnt  in  each  man's  blood. 
Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory, 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story, 

Wheresoe'er  he  came. 
So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands, 

Many  a  harbor-niouth, 
Sailing  under  ]ialmy  highlands 

Far  within  the  South. 


On  a  day  when  they  were  going 

O'er  the  lone  expanse. 
In  the  north,  her  canvas  flowing. 

Rose  a  ship  of  France. 
Then  the  Captain's  color  heighteji'd. 

Joyful  came  his  speech  : 
But  a  cloudy  gladness  lighten'd 

In  the  eyes  of  each. 
' '  Chase, "  he  said  :  the  ship  flew  forward^ 

And  the  wind  did  blow  ; 
Stately,  lightly,  went  .she  Norward, 

Till  she  near'd  the  foe. 
Then  they  look'd  at  him  they  hated. 

Had  what  they  desired  : 
Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited  — 

Not  a  gun  was  fired. 
But  they  heard  the  foeman's  thunder 

Roaring  out  their  doom  ; 
All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder, 

Crashing  went  the  boom. 
Spars  were  splin  ter'd.decks  were  shatter'd, 

Bullets  fell  like  rain  ; 
Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter'd 

Blood  and  brains  of  men. 
Spars  were  splinter'd  ;  decks  were  broken-. 

Every  mother's  son  — 
Down  they  dropt  —  no  word  was  spoken — 

Each  beside  his  gun. 
On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying. 

Were  their  faces  grim. 
In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying, 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 
Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 

For  his  noble  name. 
With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 

Sold  him  unto  shame. 
Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  confounded, 

Pale  he  turn'd  and  red. 
Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 

Falling  on  the  dead. 
Dismal  error  !  fearful  slaughter  I 

Years  have  wander'd  by. 
Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 

Crew  and  Cajttain  lie  ; 
There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 

O'er  them  mouldering. 
And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 

With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 

THREE    SONNETS    TO    A 
COQUETTE. 

I. 

Cakess'd  or  chidden  by  the  dainty  hand, 

And  .singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that. 
Light  Hope  at  Beauty's  call  would  perch 
and  stand, 


ON   A   MOURNER. 


119 


And  run  thro'  every  change  of  sharp 

and  flat ; 
And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat, 
When  sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy 
band, 
And  chased  away   the   still-recurring 
gnat. 
And  woke  her  with  a  lay  from  fairy  land. 
But  now  they  live  with  Beauty  less  and 
less, 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  far, 
Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love's  delicious 
creeds  ; 
And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness. 
Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a  single  star, 
That  sets  at  twilight  in  aland  of  reeds. 


The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 
A  nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly 
drest, 
And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplish- 
ment : 
Yet  in  the  waltzing-circle  as  we  went. 

My  fancy  made  me  for  a  moment  blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous 

breast 
That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  content. 
A  moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears, 
The  phantom  of  a  wish  that  once  could 
move, 
A  ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles 
restore  — 
For  ah  !  the  slight  coquette,  she  can- 
not love, 
Andifyou  kiss'dherfeetathousand  years, 
She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and 
care  no  more. 


Wan  Sculptor  weepest  thou  to  take  the 
cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments   that   near 
thee  lie  ? 
0  sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the 
past. 
In  painting  some   dead   friend   from 
memory  ? 
Weep  on  :  beyond  his  object  Love  can 
last  : 
His  object  lives  :  more  cause  to  weep 
have  I  : 
My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing  fast. 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love 
can  die. 


I  pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup, 
Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she 
sits  — 
Ahpity— hint  it  notin  human  tones. 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  for  ever,  in  the  pits 
Which  some  green  Christmas  crams 
with  weary  bones. 

SONG. 

Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums 
Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands  : 
Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow. 
Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 
Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe, 

Audstiikeshim  deadforthine  and  thee. 


SONG. 

HojiE  they  hroughthimslainwithspears. 

They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall : 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 

Echoes  in  his  empty  hall. 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep'd  in  from  open  field. 
The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance, 
Rode  upon  his  father's  lance, 

Beat  upon  his  father's  shield  — 

'*  0  hush,  my  joy,  my  sorrow." 

ON   A  MOURNER. 


Nature,  so  far  as  iti  her  lies. 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 

To  every  land  beneath  the  skies. 

Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with 

base, 
Biit  lives  and  lo»^es  in  every  place  ; 


Fills  out  the  homely  quickset-screens. 
And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe. 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  dropping 

snipe, 
With  moss  and  braided  marisli  pipe  ; 


And  on  thy  heart  a  finger  lays. 

Saying,  "  Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 
Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 


.120 


ON   A   MOURNER. 


Arc  pleasant,  and  tlie  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  aud  I'eel  a  "ladder  clime." 


And  murnnirs  of  a  deeper  voice, 
Going  before  to  .some  far  shrine, 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger  choice, 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 


And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn, 

Come  Hope  and  j\Icniory,spouse  and  bride. 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn. 
With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them  born. 


And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 
The  blackness    round  the    tombing 
.sod, 
Thro'  sihnice  and  the  trembling  stars 
Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have 

trod. 
And  Virtue,  like  a  household  god 


Promising  empire  ;  such  as  those 
That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 

Troy's  wandering  prince,  so  that  he  rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  Heet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


NORTHERN    FARMER. 


121 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


(PUBLISHED   IN    ISCO  ) 


NORTHERN    FARMER. 

NEW  STYLE. 


Dosn't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they 

canters  awariy  ? 
Propiittj',  proputty,  proputty  —  that's 

what  I   ears  'em  saay. 
Proputty,    proputty,    proputtj'  —  Sam, 

thou 's  an  ass  for  tliy  paains  : 
Theer  's  moor  sense  i"  one  o'  'is  legs  nor 

in  all  thy  braains. 


Woa- 


tha. 


-  theer 's  a  craw  to  pluc 

Sam  :  yon  's  parson's  'ouse  — 
Dosn't  thou  iciiaw  that  a  man  mun  be 

eather  a  man  or  a  mouse  ? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then  ;  for  thou'll  be 

twenty  to  weeiik.* 
Proputt}',  proputty  —  woii  then  woa  — 

let  ma  'ear  mysen  speak. 


Me  an'  thy  mnther,  Sammy,  'as  bean 

a-t,all<in'  o'  thee  ; 
Their 's  been  tnlkin'  to  muther,  an'  she 

berin  a  tcUin'  it  me. 
Thou'll  not  marry  for  munny  —  thou's 

sweet  upo'  parson's  lass  — 
Noa — thou'll  marry  for  luvv  —  an'  we 

boiith  on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 


Seeii'd  her  to-dariy  ^ori  by  —  Sariint's- 
daay  —  thej'was  ringing  the  bells. 

She's  a  beauty  thou  thinks  — an'  soa  is 
seoors  o'  gells, 

Them  as  'as  munny  an'  all  —  wot 's  a 
beauty?  —  the  flower  as  blaws. 

But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  pro- 
putty, proputty  graws. 


Do' ant  be  stunt  •.  +  tajike  time  :  T  knaws 
what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 


Warn't  I  craazcd  fur  the  lasses  niy.«^n 

when  I  wur  a  lad  ? 
But  1  knuw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often 

'as  towd  ma  this  : 
"  Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goii 

wheer  munny  is  !  " 


An'  1  went  wheer  munny  war:  an'  thy 

mother  coom  to  'and, 
Wi"  lotso'  munny  Innul  by,  an'  a  nicetish 

bit  o'  land. 
Maaybe  she  warn't  a  beauty  :  —  1  niver 

giv  it  a  tliowt  — 
But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  nn  kiss 

as  a  lass  as  'ant  nowt  ? 


Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a 

nowt  wlien  "e's  deiid, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and 

addie*  her  bread  : 
Why  ?  fur 'e's  nobbut  a  curate,  an'  weiint 

nivir  git  iiaw  'igher  ; 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor 

'e  coom'd  to  the  shire. 


And  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots 

o'  'Varsity  debt, 
Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant 

got  shut  on  'em  }'et. 
An'  'c  ligs  on  'is  back  1'  the  grip,  wi' 

noan  to  lend  'im  a  .shove, 
Woorse  nor  a  far-welter'd  t  yowe  :    fur, 

Sammy,  'e  married  fur  luvv. 


Luvv  ?  what 's  luvv  ?  thou  can  luvv  thy 

lass  an'  'er  munny  too, 
Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they've  good 

right  to  do. 
Could'u  I  luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o' 

'er  munny  laaul  by  ? 
Naiiy  —  fur  I  lu vv'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor 

fur  it :  reason  why. 


•  Ham. 

I  Or  fow-welter'd,  - 
in  the  furrow. 


ill  of  a  sheep  ly'ng  on  its  bacK 


122 


THE   VICTIM. 


Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to 

many  tlie  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman  burn  :  an'  we  boath 

on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha  ?  — •  an  ass  as 

near  as  mays  nowt —  * 
Woa  then,  wiltha  ?  dangtha  !  —  the  bees 

is  as  fell  as  owt.  t 


Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead, 

lad,  out  o'  the  fence  ! 
Gentleman    burn  !    what's    gentleman 

burn  ?  is  it  shillius  an'  pence  ! 
Froputty,  proputty  's  ivrything  'ere,  an', 

Sammy,  I  'm  blest 
If  it  is  n't  the  saatne  oop  yonder,  fur 

them  as  'as  it 's  the  best. 


Tis'n  them  as  'as  niunny  as  breaks  into 

'ouses  an'  steals, 
Them  as  'as  coiits  to  their  backs  an'  taiikes 

their  regular  meals. 
Noa,  but  it's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer 

a  meal 's  to  be  'ad. 
Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor 

in  a  loomp  is  bad. 


Them  or  thir  feythers,  th^  sees,  mun  a 

bean  a  laazy  lot, 
Fur  work   mun  'a   gone  to  the   gittin' 

whiniver  munny  was  got. 
Feyther  'ad  amuiost  nowt ;  leaastwaays 

'is  munny  was  'id. 
But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  'issen  dead,  an' 

'e  died  a  good  un  'e  did. 


Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck 

comes  out  by  the  'ill! 
Feyther  run  up  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs 

up  to  the  mill  ; 
An'  I'll  run    up  to  the  brig,  an'  that 

thou  '11  live  to  see  ; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I  '11  leave 

the  land  to  thee. 


Thim's  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby 

1  means  to  stick  ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I  '11  leave 

the  land  to  Disk.  — 


*  Makes  nothing. 

t  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything. 


Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  —  that 's 
what  I  'ears  'im  saay  — 

Froputty,  proputty,  proputty  —  canter 
an'  canter  awaay. 


THE    VICTIM. 


A  PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 
A  famine  after  laid  them  low, 
Then  tliorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire, 

For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe  ; 
So  thick  they  died  the  peoj^le  cried 

' '  The  G  odsare  moved  against  the  land. " 
The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 
To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a  hand  : 
"  Help  us  from  famine 
And  plague  and  strife  ! 
What  would  you  have  of  us  ? 
Human  life  ? 
Were  it  our  nearest, 
Were  it  our  dearest, 
(Answer,  0  answer) 
We  give  you  his  life." 

II. 
But  still  the  foeman  spoil'd  and  burn'd, 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 
And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn'd 

And  whiten'd  all  the  rolling  flood  ; 
And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way, 

Ordown  in  afurrow  scathed  with  flame : 
And  ever  and  aye  the  priesthood  moan'd 
Till  at  last  it  seem'd  that  an  answer 
came  : 
' '  The  King  is  happy 
In  child  and  wife  ; 
Take  you  his  dearest, 
Give  us  a  life." 


The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild  ; 
They  found  the  mother  sitting  still ; 
She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 
The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old, 
His  beauty  still  with  hisyearsincreased, 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold. 
He  seem'd  a  victim  due  to  the  priest 
The  Priest  beheld  him. 
And  cried  with  joy, 
"The  Gods  have  ar.swer'd  : 
We  give  them  the  boy." 


Tiie  King  return'd  from  out  the  wild, 
He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand ; 


THE   HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 


123 


The  mother  said  "  They  have  taken  the 
child 
To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land  : 
The  land  is  sick,  tlie  iieople  diseased, 

And  blight  and  t'aniinu  on  all  the  lea  : 
The  holy  Gods,  they  must  \h'.  apjieased, 
So  1  pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  nie. 
They  have  taken  onr  son, 
Tiiey  will  h;iv'e  his  life. 
Js  he  your  dearest  ? 
Or  I,  the  wife?" 


The  Kin;:;  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow. 

He  stay'd  his  arms  u[ton  his  knee  : 
"O  wife,  what  use  to  answer  now  ? 

Foruow  the  I'rient hasjud!:;ed  forme." 
The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear  : 
"The  Gods,"  he  said,  "would  have 
chosen  well  ; 
Yet  both  are  nep.r,  and  both  are  dear. 
And  which  the  dearest  1  cannot  tell ! " 
But  tlie  Priest  was  happy, 
His  victim  won  : 
"  We  have  his  dearest, 
His  only  son  !  " 

VI. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared. 

The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow. 
To  the  altar-stone  slie  sprang  alone, 

"Me,  not  my  darling,  no  !" 
He  caught  her  aw.ay  with  a  sudden  cry  ; 

Suddenly  from  him  brakt?  his  wife. 
And  shiiekiug  "/am  his  dearest,  I  — 
/am  hisdearest ! "  rush'd  ou  the  knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 
"0,  Father  Odin, 
We  give  you  a  life. 
Which  was  his  nearest  ? 
Who  was  his  dearest  ? 
The  Gods  have  answer'd  ; 
We  give  them  the  wife  !  " 


WAGES. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory 

of  song, 
Paid  witii  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost 
on  an  endless  sea — ■ 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  light,  to  struggle,  to 
right  the  wrong  — 
Nay,  but  she  aim'il  not  at  glory,  no 
lover  of  glory  slie  : 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still 
to  be. 


The  wages  of  sin  is  death  :  if  ihe  wages 

of  Virtue  be  dust. 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for 

tlie  life  of  tiie  worm  and  the  lly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  rpiiet 

seats  of  the  just. 
To  rest  in  a  golden  g.rove,  or  to  bnsk 

in  a  summer  sky  : 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not 

to  die. 


THE   HIGHER   PANTHEISM. 

T[iF,  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea.s, 
the  hills  and  the  plains  — 

Are  not  these,  0  Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him 
who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ?  tho'  He  be  not 

that  which  He  seems  ? 
Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do 

we  not  live  in  dreams  ? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of 
body  and  limb, 

Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  di- 
vision fronx  Him  / 

Dark  is  the  woild  to  thee  ;  thyself  art  the 

reason  why  ; 
For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast 

power  to  feel  "  I  am  I  "  ? 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee  ;  and  thou 

fullillest  thy  doom. 
Making  Him  broken  gleams,  and  a  stifled 

s^ilendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and 
Spirit  with  Spirit  can  meet  — 

Closer  is  He  than  breatiiing,  and  nearer 
than  hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law,  say  the  wise  ;  0  Soul,  and 

let  us  rejoice. 
For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is 

yet  His  voice. 

Law  is  God,  say  some  :  no  God  at  all, 

says  the  fool  ; 
For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a  straight 

stalf  bent  in  a  pool  ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear,  and  the 

eye  of  man  cannot  see  ; 
Butifwecouldsoeaiidhear,  this  Vision  — 

were  it  not  He  ? 


124 


LUCRETIUS. 


Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
J  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies  ;  — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower  —  but  if  I  could  understaTid 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


LUCRETIUS. 

LuciLiA,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 
Her  master  cold  ;  for  when  the  morning 

flush 
Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had  died 
Between  them,  the'  he  loved  her  none  the 

less, 
Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his  foot 
Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,   and 

ran 
To  greet  him  with  a  kiss,  the  master  took 
Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for — his  mind 
Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argument, 
Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 
And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter  —  he  past 
To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hundred 

scrolls 
Left  by  theTeacherwhom  he  held  divine. 
She  brook'd  it  not ;  but  wrathful,  pet- 
ulant. 
Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found 

a  witch 
Whobrew'd  the  philtre  which  had  power, 

they  said, 
To  lead  an  errant  pasrion  home  again. 
And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  his 

drink. 
And  this  destroy'd  him  ;  for  the  wicked 

broth 
Confused  the  cliemic  labor  of  the  blood. 
And  tickling  the  brute  braiu  within  the 

man's 
Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells, 

and  check'd 
His  power  to  shape  :  he  loathed  himself ; 

and  once 
After  a  tempest  woke  upon  a  morn 
That  mock'd  him  with  returning  calm, 

and  cried  ; 

"Storm  in  the  night !  for  thrice  I  heard 
the  rain 
Rushing ;  and  once  the  flash  of  a  thunder- 
bolt — 
Methought  I  never  saw  so  fierce  a  fork  — 


Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain-side, 

and  show'd 
A  riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 
Blanching  and  billowing  in  a  hollow  of 

it. 
Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 

"  Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy 

Gods,  what  dreams  ! 
For  thrice  I  waken'd  after  dreams.   Per- 
chance 
We   do   but   recollect  the  dreams  that 

come 
Just   ere    the    waking  :  terrible  !  for  it 

seem'd 
A  void  was  made   in    Nature  ;  all  her 

bonds 
Crack'd  ;  and  I  saw  the  flaring  atonx- 

streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe, 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 
Fly  on   to   clash  together  again,    and 

make 
Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
For  ever  :  that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I 

knew  it  — 
Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot 

plies 
His  function  of  the  woodland  :  but  the 

next  ! 
I  thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 
Came  driving  rainlike   down  again  on 

earth. 
And   where  it    dash'd    the    reddening 

meadow,  s|>rang 
No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth, 
For  these  1  thought  my  dream  would 

show  to  me. 
But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art. 
Hired   animalisms,    vile  as   those    that 

made 
The   mulberry-faced    Dictator's    orgies 

worse 
Than  aught   they   fable   of  the    quiet 

Gods. 
And  hands  they  mixt,   and  3'eird  and 

round  me  drove 
In  narrowing  circles  till  I  yell'd  again 
Half-sufTocated,    and    sprang    up,    and 

saw  — 
Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day  ? 

"Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood 
out  the  breasts. 
The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveiingly  a 
sword 


LUCRETIUS. 


125 


Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct, 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 

shamed 
At  all  that  beauty  ;  and  as  I  stared,  a 

fire. 
The  fire  that  left  a  roofless  I  lion, 
Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch'd  me  that 

I  woke. 

"  Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus, 

thine. 
Because  I  would  not  one  of  tliine  own 

doves, 
Not  ev'n  a  rose,  were  offer'd  to  thee  ? 

thine. 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  prooemion  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  liekl. 
In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity  ? 

"Deity?  nay,  thy  worshippers.     My 

tongue 
Trips,  or  I  speak  profanely.     Which  of 

these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all  ? 
Not  if  thou  be'st  of  those  who,  far  aloof 
From  envy,  hate    and   pity,  and  spite 

and  scorn, 
Live  the  great  life  which  all  our  greatest 

fain 
Would  follow,  centred  in  eternal  calm. 

"  Nay,  if  thou  canst,  0  Goddess,  like 

ourselves 
Touch,  and  be  touch'd,  then  would  I  cry 

to  thee 
To  kiss   thy   Mavors,   roll   thy  tender 

arms 
Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust 

of  blood 
That  makes  a  steaming  slaughter-house 

of  Rome. 

"  Ay,  but  1  meant  not  thee  ;  T  meant 

not  her. 
Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers, 

and  tempt 
The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were 

abroad  ; 
Nor  her  that  o'er  her  wounded  hunter 

wept 
Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous  tears  ; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.     Rather,  0  ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  veise  — 
Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also  —  did  I  take 


That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow 

forth 
The   all-generating   powers    and  genial 

heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro'  the 

thick  blood 
Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lam.bs 

are  glad 
Nosing  the  mother's  udder,  and  the  bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of 

flowers : 
Which  things  appear  the  work  of  mighty 

Gods. 

"  The  Gods  !  and  if  I  go  mv  work  is 

left 
Unfmish'd — if  I  go.     The  Gods,  who 

haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world. 
Where  never  creeps  a  cloud,  or  moves  a 

wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of 

snow. 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans. 
Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to 

mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm  !  and  such. 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a  calm, 
Not  such,  nor  till  unlike  it,  man  may  gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.     The  Gods,  the 

Gods  ! 
If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the  Gods 
Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble, 
Not  follow  the  great  law  ?     My  master 

held 
That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  be- 
lieve. 
I  prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Jlemmius  in  a  train 
Of  flowery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That  Gods   there    are,    and    deathless. 

Meant  ?  I  meant  ? 
I    have    forgotten    what    I   meant :  my 

mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 

' '  Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the 

Sun, 
Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion  —  what  you  will  — 
Has  mounted  yonder  ;  since   he  never 

sware. 
Except  his     wrath    were    wreak'd    on 

wretched  man. 
That  he  would  only  shine    among  the 

dead 
Hereafter  ;  tales  .'  for  never  yet  on  earth 


126 


LUCRETIUS. 


Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roast- 
ing ox 
Moan  round   the  spit  —  nor  knows  he 

what  he  sees ; 
King  of  the  East   altho*   he  Mem,  and 

girt 
With  song   and   flame   and    fragrance, 

slowly  lifts 
His  golden    feet   on   those   empurpled 

stairs 
That  climb   into   the    windy  halls    of 

heaven  : 
And  here  he  g'ances  on  an  eye  new-born, 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a  wail  of  pain  ; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a  freezing  orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the 

last ; 
And  here  upon  a  yellow  eyelid  fall'n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a  friend 

in  vain, 
Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no 

more. 
And  me,  altho'  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whetlier  1  mean  this  day  to  end  myself. 
Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says. 
That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the 

post 
Allotted  by  the  Gods  :  but  he  that  holds 
The  Gods  are  careless,    wherefore  need 

he  care 
Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at 

once. 
Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and 

sink 
Past  earthquake — -ay,    and   gout    and 

stone,  that  break 
Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in- 
life, 
And  wretched  age  —  and  worst  disease 

of  all. 
These  prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses. 
And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeakable, 
Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 
Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every  dish. 
The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully 

done. 
And   fleeting  thro'   the  boundless  uni- 
verse. 
And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 
With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity  ? 

"How    should    the    mind,    except  it 

loved  them,  clasp 
These  idols  to  herself-?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the 

flakes 


In  a  fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  per- 
force 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  hour 
Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The   keepers  down,    and  tlirong,  their 

rags  and  they. 
The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the 
land  I 

"Can  I  not  fling  this  horror  off"  mt? 

again. 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can 

smile. 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of 

storm. 
At  random  lavage  ?  and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy 

slough. 
Now  towering  o'er  him  in  serenest  air, 
A  mountain  o'er  a  mountain,  —  ay,  and 

within 
All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men  ? 

"  But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden 
snared 
Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  ?  a  tale 
To  laugh  at  —  more  to  laugh  at  in  my- 
self— 
For  look  !  what  is  it  ?  there  ?  yon  arbutus 
Totters  ;  a  noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the 

tops  quivering  — 
The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph  and 

Faun  ; 
And  here  an  Oread  —  how  the  sun  delights 
To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery 

sides, 
And  rosy  knees  and  supple  roundedness, 
And   budded   bosom-peaks  —  who   this 

way  runs 
Before  the  i-est  —  A  satyr,  a  satyr,  see. 
Follows  ;  but  him  I  proved  impossible  ; 
Twy-natured  is  no  nature :  yet  he  draws 
Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I  scan  him  now 
Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his  kind 
That  ever  butted  liis  rough  lirother-brute 
For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender  : 
I  hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him  ;  and  she 
Loathes  him  as  well ;  such  a  precipitate 

heel. 
Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury's  ankle- 
wing, 
Whirls  her  to  me  :  but  will  she  fling  her- 
self. 
Shameless  upon  me  ?    Catch  her,  goat- 
foot  :  nay. 


LUCRETIUS. 


127 


Hide,  hide  them,  million-mj'rtled  wilder- 
ness, 
And  cavern-shadowing  hiurels,  hide  !  do 

I  wish  — 
What  ?  —  that  the  bush  were  leafless  ? 

or  to  whehn 
All  of  tliem  in  one  massacre  ?  0  ye  Gods, 
I  know  you  careless,  j'et,  behold,  to  you 
From  chililly  wont  and  ancient  use  I  call — 
I  thought  1  lived  securely  as  yourselves — 
No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey- 
spite, 
No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none  : 
No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or  pine 
With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass,  to 

take 
Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly-warm. 
Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 
Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 
Of  settled,  sweet.  Epicurean  life. 
But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster 

lays 
His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my  will, 
Wrenching  it  backward  into  his  ;  and 

spoils 
My  bliss  in  being  ;  and  it  was  not  great ; 
For  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in 

rhythm. 
Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words, 
To  make  a  truth  less  harsh,  I  often  grew 
Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life, 
Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 
Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 
Crown'd  with  a  flower  or  two,  and  there 

an  end  — 
And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to 

fade. 
Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I  find  myself. 
Not  manlike  end  myself  ?  —  our  privi- 
lege — 
What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it  ?     And 

v^'hat  man. 
What  Roman  would  be  dragg'd  in  tri- 

umpji  thus  ? 
Not  I ;  not  he,  whj  bears  one  name  with 

her 
Whose   death-blow  struck  the  dateless 

doom  of  kings. 
When,  brooking  not  the  Tarcpiin  in  her 

veins, 
She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  CoUatine 
And  allliis  peers, flushing  the  guiltless  air. 
Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her 

heart. 
And  from  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth, 

which  breaks 
As  I  am  breaking  now  1 


"  And  theiefore  now 
Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of  all, 
Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far  apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made 

me  man 
Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Through  all  her  cycles  —  into  man  once 

more. 
Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent  flower: 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter'd  into  one  earthquake  in  one  day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces,  — and  that  hour  per- 
haps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a  something  to  him- 
self, 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes 

and  fanes, 
And  even  his  bones  long  laid  within  the 

grave, 
The  very  sidesof  the  graveitself  shall  pass. 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and  void. 
Into  the  unseen  forever,  ^till  thnthour, 
My  golden  work  in  which  1  told  a  truth 
That  sta3's  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 
And  numbs   the    Fuiy's   ringlet-snake, 

and  plucks 
The  mortal  soul  fionj  out  inniiortal  hell, 
Shall  stand:  ay,  surely:  tlien  it  fails  at  last 
And  perishes  as  I  nutst ;  for  0  Thou, 
Passionless  bride,  divine  Traiuinillity, 
Yeain'd  after  by  the  wisest  of  the  wise, 
Who   fail    to  lind  thee,   being  as  thou 

art 
Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one 

pain, 
Howbeit  I  know  thou  surely  must  be  mine 
Or  soon  or  late,  j'et  out  of  season,  thus 
I  woo  thee  roughl)',  for  thou  caresl  not 
How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they 

win  — 
Thus  —  thus  :  the  soul  flies  out  and  dies 
in  the  air." 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his 
side  : 

She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; 
ran  in. 

Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon  her- 
self 

As  having  fail'd  in  duty  to  him,  shriek'd 

That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell 
on  him, 

Clasp'd,  kiss'dhim,  wail'd  :  he  answer' d, 
"Care  not  thou  ! 

Thy  duty  ?  What  is  duty  ?  Fare  thee 
well ! " 


128 


DEDICATION. 


IDYLLS  OF  THE  KING, 


"  Flos  Regum  Arthurus." 

JOSEPH  OF  EXETER. 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His  Memory  —  since  he  held 

them  dear. 
Perchance  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself  —  I  dedicate, 
I  dedicate,  I  consecrate  M-itli  tears  — 
These  Idylls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  othei'  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 
"  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his 

king  ; 
Whose    glory    was,    redressing    human 

wrong  ; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen'd 

to  it; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to 

her  —  " 
Her  —  over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last 

isle. 
Commingled  with   the  gloom  of  inimi- 

nent  war, 
The  shadow  of  His  loss  drew  like  eclipse. 
Darkening   the    world.     We   have   lost 

him  :  he  is  gone  : 
We  know  him  now  :  all  narrow  jealousies 
Are  silent  ;  and  we  see  him  as  he  moved. 
How  modest,  kindly,  all-accomplish'd, 

wise, 
With  what  sublime  repression  of  himself. 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly  ; 
Kot  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that ; 


Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless 

perch 
Ofwing'd  ambitions,  nor  a  vantage-ground 
For  pleasure  ;  but  thro'  all  this  tract  of 

years 
Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a  blameless 

life. 
Before  a  thousand  peering  littlenesses, 
In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a 

throne, 
And  blackens  every  blot :  for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A  lovelier  life,  a  more  unstain'd,  than  his  ? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of  his 

sons 
Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inheritance 
Of  such  a  life,  a  heart,  a  mind  as  thine. 
Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 
Laborious  for  her  jieople  and  her  poor — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day  — 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  AVar  and  AVaste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace  — 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 
Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a  Prince  in- 
deed, 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a  household  name, 
Hereafter,  thro'  all  times,  Albert  the  Good. 

Break  not,  0  woman's-heart,  but  still 
endure ; 
Break  not,  for  thoa  art  Royal,  but  endure, 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  stai 


THE   COMING   OF   ARTHUR. 


129 


Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that 

ye  made 
One  light  together,  but  has  past  and  leaves 
The  Crown  a  lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 
His  love,  unseen   but   felt,  o'ershadow 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  sous  encompass  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  daughters  cherish 

Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort  Thee, 
Till  God's  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again  ! 


THE  COMING   OF   ARTHUR. 

Leodograx,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 
Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other 

child  ; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on  earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

Formany  a  petty  king  ere  Arthur  came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land  ; 
And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen 

host 
Swarm'd  overseas,  and  harried  what  was 

left. 
And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wilder- 
ness, 
Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and 

more, 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur 

,    came. 
For  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and 

died, 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and 

died, 
But  eitherfail'dtomakethe  kingdom  one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a  space, 
And  thro'  the  puissance   of  his   Table 

Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under 

him, 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a  realm, 

and  reign'd. 

And  thus  the  land  ot  Cameliard  was 

waste. 
Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a  beast 

therein, 
Aud  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the 

beast ', 
So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolf  and  boar  and 

bear 


Came  night  aud  day,  and  rooted  in  the 

fields, 
And  wallow'd  in  the  gardens  of  the  king. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and 

then. 
Her  ownbrood  lost  or  dead,  leut  her  fierce 

teat 
To  human  sucklings  ;  and  tlie  children, 

housed 
In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meatwould 

growl, 
Andmock  their  foster-mother  onfourfeet. 
Till,  straighten'd,  they  grew  up  to  wolf- 
like men, 
Worse  than  the  wolves.    And  King  Leodo- 

gran 
Groan'dfor  the  Roman  legions  here  again. 
And  Caesar's  eagle  :  then  his  brother  king, 
Rience,  assail'dhim  :  last  a  heathen  horde, 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and  earth 

with  blood, 
And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  mother's 

heart 
Spitting  the  child,   brake  on  him,  till, 

amazed, 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn  for 

aid. 

But  —  for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 
crown'd, 
'  Tlio'  not  without  an  ;iproar  made  by  those 
Who  cried,  "He  is  not  Uther's  son "  — 

the  king 
Sent  to  him,  saying,    "Arise,  and  help 

us  thou  ! 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast  we 
die." 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of 
arms, 
But  heard  the  call,  and  came  :  and  Guin- 
evere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him 

pass  ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  oi 

shield 
The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 
But  rode   a  simple   knight   among  his 

knights, 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms  than  he, 
Shesawhimnot,  ormark'dnot,  if  she.saw, 
One  among  many,  the'  his  face  was  bare. 
But  Arthur,  lookingdownward  as  he  past, 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  sudden,  yet  rode  on,  and 
pitch'd 


130 


THE   COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


His  tents  beside  the  forest.    And  he  drave 
The  heathen,  and  lie  slew  the  beast,  and 

fell'd 
The  forest,  and  let  in  the  sun,  and  made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunter  and  the 

knight ; 
And  so  return'd. 

For  while  he  linger'd  there, 
A  doubt  that  ever  smoulder'd  in  the  hearts 
Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his 

realm 
Flash'd  forth  and  into  war :  for  most  of 

these 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  "Who 

is  he 
That  he  should  rule  us  ?  who  hatli  proven 

him. 
King  Uther's  son  ?  for  lo !  we  look  at  him 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs  nor 

voice, 
Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we  knew. 
This  is  the  son  of  Gorlois,  not  the  king  ; 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king." 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle, 

felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the  life. 
Desiring  to  be  join'd  with  Guinevere  ; 
And  thinking  as  he  rode,  "Her  father 

said 
That  there  between  the  man  and  beast 

they  die. 
Shall  I  not  lift  her  from  this  land  of  beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with 

me  ? 
What  hay)piness  to  reign  a  lonely  king, 
Vext  —  0  ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0  earth  that  soundest  hollow  under  me, 
Vext  with  waste  dreams  ?  for  saving  1  be 

joiu'd 
To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1  seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 
And  cannot  will  my  will,  nor  work  my 

work 
Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own 

realm 
Victor  and  lord.     But  were  I  join'd  with 

her, 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  one  life, 
And  reigning  with  one  will  in  everything 
Havepoweronthis  dark  land  to  lighten  it, 
And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make  it 

live." 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battle  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 


His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leodo- 

gran, 
Saying,  "  If  I  in  aught  have  served  thee 

well. 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to  wife." 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in 

heart 
Debating — "  How  should  I  that  am  a 

king, 
However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need," 
Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a  king, 
And  a  king's  son  "  —  lifted  his  voice,  and 

call'd 
A  hoai-y  man,  his  chamberlain,  to  whom 
He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him  required 
His  counsel  :  "Knowest  thou  aught  of 

Arthur's  birth  ? " 

Then  spake  the  hoary  chamberlain  and 

said, 
"  Sir  king,  there  be  but  two  old  men  that 

know  : 
And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I  ;  and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever  served 
King  Uther  thro'  liis  magic  art ;  and  one 
IsMerlin'smaster(sotheycallhim)  Bleys, 
Who  taught  hiui  magic  ;  but  the  scholar 

ran 
Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that  Bleys 
Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and 

wrote 
All  things  and  M-hatsoever  Merlin  did 
Inonegreat  annal-book,  where  after-years 
Will   learn  the  secret   of  our   Arthm-.s 

birth." 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran  replied, 
"0  friend,  had  I  been  holpen  half  as  well 
By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day, 
Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their  share 

of  me  : 
But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once  more 
Ullius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere." 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him,  the 

king  said, 
' '  I  have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by  lesser 

fowl, 
And  reason  in  the  chase  :  but  wherefore 

now 
Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  ol 

war, 
Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 
Otiiers  of  Anton?  Tell  me,  ye  yourselves, 
Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  Uther'a 

son  ? " 


THE  COmNG   OF  ARTHUR. 


131 


And    Ulfiiis   and    Brastias   answer'd, 

"Ay." 
Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his  knights 
Knighted   by  Arthnr  at   his  crowning, 

spake  — 
For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word  was  he, 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against  the 

king  — 

"Sir,  there  be  many  .rumors  on  this 

head  : 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in  their 

hearts, 
Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways 

are  sweet, 
And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less  than 

man  : 
And  there  be  those  who  deem  him  more 

than  man, 
And  dream  hedroptfrom  heaven  :  butmy 

belief 
In  all  this  matter  —  so  ye  care  to  learn  — 
Sir,  foryeknow  that  in  IvingUther's  time 
The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlois,  he  that 

held 
Tintagil  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea, 
Was  wedded  with  a  winsome  wife,  Ygerne : 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,  —  one 

wliereof, 
Lot'swife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bellicent, 
Hath  ever  like  a  loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur,  — but  a  son  she  had  not  borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love  : 
But  she,  a  stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 
So  loathed  the  bright  dishonorof  his  love. 
That  Gorloisand  King  Uther  went  to  war : 
And  overthrown  w-as  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then  Utherinhis  wrath  and  heat  besieged 
Ygerne  within  Tintagil,  where  her  men, 
Seeing   the  mighty  swarm   about  their 

walls. 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter'd  in, 
And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  himself. 
So,  compass'd  by  the  power  of  the  king, 
Enforc'd  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her  tears. 
And  with  ashameful  swiftness;  afterward. 
Not  many  moons,  King  Uther  died  him- 
self, 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  go  to 

wrack. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the 

new  year, 
By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his  time 
Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as  born 
Deliver'd  at  a  secret  postern  gate 


To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come  ;  because  the 

Icrds 
Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of  this. 
Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have  torn 

the  child 
Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they  known; 

for  each 
But  sought  to  rule  for  his  own  self  and 

hand. 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois.     Wherefore  Merlin  took  the 

child. 
And  gavehimtoSir  Anton,  an  old  knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther  ;  and  his  wife 
Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear'd  him 

with  her  own  ; 
And  no  man  knew.     And  ever  since  the 

lords 
Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among 

themselves, 
So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  WTack  : 

but  row. 
This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour  had 

come) 
Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in  the 

hall, 
Proclaiming,  '  Here  is  Uther's  heir,  your 

king,' 
A  hundred  voices  cried,  '  Away  with  him ! 
No  king  of  ours  !  a  son  of  Gorlois  he, 
Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no  king, 
Or  else  baseborn.'     Yet  Merlin  thro'  his 

craft. 
And  while  the  people  clamor'd  for  a  king. 
Had  Arthur  crown'd  ;  but  after,  the  great 

lords 
Banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open  war." 

Then  while  the  king  debated  with  him- 
self 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamefulness. 
Or  born  the  son  of  Gorlois,  after  death, 
Or  Uther's  son,  and  born  before  his  time. 
Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  anything 
Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to  Came- 

liard. 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her  two 

.sons, 
Lot's  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,   Belli- 
cent ; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would,  the 

king 
Made feastfor,  saying,  as  they  satat  meat, 

"  A  doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  summer 
seas  — 


132 


THE   COMING    OF   ARTHUR. 


Ye  come  from  Arthur's  court  :  think  ye 

this  king  — 
So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they 

be  — 
Hath   body   enow   to  beat  his   foemen 

down?" 

"  0  king,"  she  cried,  "and  I  will  tell 

thee  :  few, 
Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind  with 

him  ; 
For  I  was  near  him  when  the  savage  yells 
Of  Uther's  peerage  died,  and  Arthur  sat 
Crown'd  on  the  dais,  and  his  warriors 

cried, 
'  Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work  thy 

will 
Who  love  thee.'     Then  the  king  in  low 

deep  tones. 
And  simple  words  of  great  authority. 
Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his  own 

self. 
That  when  they   rose,    knighted   from 

kneeling,  some 
Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a  ghost. 
Some  flush'd,  and  others  dazed,  as  one 

who  wakes 
Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a  light. 

"But  when  he  spake  and  cheer'd  his 

Table  Eound 
With  large  divine  anc^  comfortable  words 
Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee  —  I  beheld 
From  eye  to  eye  thro'  all  their  Order  Hash 
A  momentary  likeness  of  the  king  : 
And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro'  the  cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur, 

smote 
Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three  rays. 
One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair  queens, 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne,  the 

friends 
Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with  bright 
Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his  need. 

"  And  there  I  saw  mage  Merlin,  whose 
vast  wit 
And  hundred  winters  arebutas  the  hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

"  And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake, 

Who  knows  a  subtler  magic  than  his 
own  — 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 
ful. 


She  gave  the  king  his  huge  cross-hilted 

sword, 
Wherebytodrivethe  heathen  out  :  a  mist 
Of  incense  ciirl'd  about  her,  and  her  face 
Wellnigh   was   hidden   in    the   minster 

gloom  ; 
But   there   was  heard  among  the   holy 

hymns 
A  voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  she  dwells 
Down  in  a  deep,  calm,  wdiatsoever  storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the  sur- 
face rolls. 
Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like  our 
Lord. 

' '  There  likewise  I  beheld  Excalibur 
Before  him  at  his  clowning  borne,  the 

sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
And  Arthur  row'd  across  and  took  it  — 

rich 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt. 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye  —  the  blade 

so  bright 
That  men  are  blinded  by  it  ■ —  on  one  side. 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this 

world, 
'Take  me,'  but  turn  the  blade  and  you 

.shall  see. 
And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak  your- 
self, 
'  Cast  me  away  ! '     And  sad  was  Arthur's 

face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell'd  him, 
'  Take  thou  and  strike  !  the  time  to  cast 

away 
Tsyet  far-off. '    So  this  great  brand  the  king 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen 

down." 

Thereat  Leodogran  rejoiced,  but 
thought 
To  sift  hisdoubtingstothelast,  and  ask'd, 
Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her  face, 
"  The  swallow  and  the  swiftare  near  akin. 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince, 
Beinghisown  dear  sister  "  ;  and  she  said, 
' '  Daughter  of  Gorlois  and  Ygerne   am 

1"  ; 
"  And  therefore  Arthur's  sister,"  a.sk'd 

the  King. 
She  answer'd,  "These  be  secret  things," 

and  sign'd 
To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them  be. 
And  G awain  went,  and  breaking  into  song 
Sprang  out,  and   follow'd  by  his  flying 

hair 


THE   COMING   OF    A.RTIIUR, 


133 


Ran  like  a  colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw  : 
But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the  doors, 
And  there  half  heard  ;  the  same  that  af- 
terward 
Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking  found 
his  doom. 

And  then  the    Queen    made   answer, 

"What  know  I  ? 
For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and 

hair, 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I  ;  and  dark 
Was  Gorlois,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther 

too, 
Wellnigh  to  blackness  ;  but  this  king  is 

fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I  hear 
A  cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 
A  mother  weeping,  and  I  hear  her  say, 
'  0  that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty  one. 
To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of  the 

world.' " 

"Ay,"  said  the  King,  "and  hear  }'e 
such  a  cry  ? 
But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee 
first  ? " 

"  0  king  ! "  she  cried,  "  and  I  will  tell 

thee  tnie  : 
He  found  me  first  when  yet  a  little  m^id : 
Beaten  I  had  been  for  a  little  fault 
Whereof  I  was  not  guilty  ;  and  out  I  ran 
And  flung  myself  down  on  a  bank  of  heath, 
And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all  therein, 
And  wept,  and  wish'd  that  I  were  dead  ; 

and  he  — 
I  know  not  whether  of  himself  he  came. 
Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say,  can 

walk 
Unseen  at  pleasure  —  he  was  at  my  side, 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted 

my  heart, 
And  dried  my  tears,  being  a  child  with  me. 
And  many  a  time  he  came,  and  evermore 
As  I  grew  greater  grew  with  me  ;  and  .sad 
At  times  he  seem'd,  and  sad  with  him 

was  I, 
Stem  too  at  times,  and  then  I  loved  liim 

not. 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I  loved  him  well. 
And  now  of  Late  I  see  him  less  and  less, 
But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours  for 

me. 
For  then  I  surely  thought  be  would  be 

king. 


"  But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another  tale: 
For  Bleys,  our  Merlin's  ma.ster,  as  they 

say, 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to  me, 
To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his  life. 
Shrunk  like  a  fairy  changeling  lay  the 

mage. 
And  when  I  enter'd  told  me  that  himself 
And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the  king, 
Uther,  before  he  died,  and  on  the  night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagil  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the  two 
Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth  to 

breathe. 
Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the  chasm 
Descending  thro'  the  dismal  night  —  a 

night 
In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and  earth 

were  lost  — 
Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary  deeps 
It  seem'd  in  heaven,  a  ship,  the  shape 

thereof 
A  dragon  wing'd,  and  all  from  stem  to  stern 
Bright  withashiningpeoplc  on  the  decks, 
Andgoneassoon  as  seen.     And  then  the 

two 
Dropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch'd  the  gi«at 

sea  fall. 
Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than  the 

last. 
Till  last,  a  ninth  one,  gathering  half  the 

deep 
And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and  plunged 
Roaiing,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a  flame  : 
And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame  was 

borne 
A  naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin's  feet. 
Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and 

cried  '  The  King  ! 
Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther  ! '  And  the  fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the 

strand, 
Lasli'd  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the  word. 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in  fire, 
So  that  the  child  and  he  \vere  clothed  in 

fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  follow'd  calm, 
Free   sky   and   stars  :  '  And   this   same 

child,'  he  said, 
'Is  he  who  reigns  ;  nor  could  I  part  in 

peace 
Till  this  were  told. '     And  saying  this  the 

seer 
Went  thro'  the  stiait  and  dreadful  pass 

of  death. 
Not  ever  to  be  question'd  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side  ;  but  when  I  met 


134 


THE  COMING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Merlin,  and    ask'd  Mm  if  these  filings 

were  truth  — 
The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked  chiUT 
Descending  in  tlie  glory  of  the  seas  — 
He  laugh'd  as  is  his  wont,  andanswer'dme 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and  said  : 

"  'Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  in 
the  sky  ! 
A  young  man  will  he  wiser  by  and  by  ; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he  die. 
Rain,  rain,  and  sun  !  a  rainbow  on  the 
lea ! 
And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to  thee  ; 
And  trutli  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it  be. 
Rain,  sun,  and  rain  !  and  the  free  blos- 
som blows : 
Sun,  rain,  and  sun  !  and  where  is  he  wlio 

knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he 
goes.' 

"So  Merlin  riddling  anger'd  me  ;  but 

thou 
Fearnottogive  this  king  thine  only  child, 
Guinevere :  sogreat  bards  of  him  will  sing 
Hereafter  ;  and  dark  sayings  fron:  of  old 
Ranging  and  ringing  thro'  the  minds  of 

men. 
And  echo'd  by  old  folk  beside  their  fires 
For  com  fort  after  their  wage-work  isdone. 
Speak  of  the  king ;  and  Merlin  in  ou.rtime 
Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and  sworn 
Tho'  men  may  wound  him  that  he  will 

not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come  ;  and  then  or  now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot. 
Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for  their 

king." 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran  rejoiced. 
But  musing ' '  Shall  I  answer  yea  or  nay  ? " 
Doubted,  and  drowsed,  nodded  and  slept, 

and  saw, 
Dreaming,  a  sfope  of  land  that  ever  grew, 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a  height,  the  peak 
Haze-hidden,    and    thereon    a   phantom 

king, 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost ;  and  on  the 

slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd 

was  driven, 
Fire  glimpsed  ;   and  all  the  land  from 

roof  and  rick, 
In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a  rolling  wind, 
Stream'd  to  the  peak,  and  mingled  with 

the  haze 


And  made  it  thicker  ;  while  the  phantom 

king 
Sent  out  at  times  a  voice  ;  and  here  or 

there 
Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the  voice, 

the  rest 
Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  "  No  king  of 

ours, 
No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours  "  ; 
Till  with  a  wink  his  dream  was  changed, 

the  haze 
Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in 

heaven, 
Crown'd.  And  Leodogran  awoke,  and  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 
Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering  yea. 

Th'jn  Arthur  charged  his  warrior  whom 
he  loved 
And  honor'd  most,  Sir  Lancelot,  to  ride 

forth 
And   bring  the    Queen  ;  —  and  watch'd 

him  from  the  gates  : 
And    Lancelot    past    away  among   the 

flowers, 
(For  then  was  latter  April)  and  return'd 
Among  tlie  flowers,  in  May,  with  Guin- 
evere. 
To  wliom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high 

saint. 
Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and  before 
Thestateliestof  heraltar-shrines,  tlie  king 
That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stain- 
less white. 
The  fair  beginners  of  a  nobler  time. 
And  glorying  in  their   vows  and  him, 

his  knights 
Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his 

joy- 

And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands  and 

spake, 
"  Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and  make 

the  world 
Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with 

thee. 
And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Round 
Fulfil   the   boundless  purpose  of  their 

king." 

Then  at  tlie  marriage   feast  came  in 
from  Rome, 
The  slowdy-fading  mistress  of  the  world. 
Great  lords,  who  claim'd  the  tribute  as 

of  yore. 
But  Arthur  spake,   "Behold,  for  these 
I  have  sworn 


GEKAINT   AND   ENID. 


135 


Vo  fight  my  wars,  and  worship  me  their 

king; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new  ; 
And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and  old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman 

wall, 
No  tribute  will  we  pay  "  :  so  those  great 

lords 
Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove 

with  Rome. 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a 

space 
Were  all  one  will,  and  bhro*  that  strength 

the  king 
Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under  him. 
Fought,    and   in    twelve    great    battles 

overcame 
The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a  realm 

and  reigii'd. 


GEKAINT  AND   ENID. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's 

court, 
A  tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Round, 
Had  married  Enid,  Yniol's  only  child, 
And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of 

Heaven. 
And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 
At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so  loved 

Geraint 
To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day. 
In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 
And  Enid,  but  to  please  her  husband's 

eye. 
Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a 

state 
Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  liim 
In  some  fresh  splendor  ;  and  the  Queen 

herself, 
Grateful   to    Prince  Geraint  for  service 

done. 
Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own  wliite 

hands 
Array'd  and  deck'd  her,  as  the  loveliest, 
Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court. 
And  Enid  loved  the   Queen,  and  with 

true  heart 
Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the  best 
And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 
And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close, 


Long   in   their    common    love   rejoiced 

Geraint. 
But  when  a  rumor  rose  about  the  Quec^i, 
Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 
Tho'  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet 

was  heard 
The  world's  loud  whisper  breaking  into 

storm, 
NotlessGeraintbelievedit ;  and  there  fell 
A  horror  on  liim,  lest  his  gentle  wife, 
Thro'  thatgreat  tendernessfor  Guinevere, 
Had  suffer'd,  or  should  sull'er  any  taint 
In  nature  :  wherefore  going  to  the  king, 
He  made  this  pretext,  tliathis  princedom 

lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a  territorj^. 
Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 

knights, 
xVssassins,  and  all  fliers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a  law  : 
And  therefore,  till  the  king  himself  should 

please 
To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  his 

realm. 
He  craved  a  fair  permission  to  depart. 
And  there  ilefend  his  marches  ;  and  the 

king 
JIused  for  a  little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 
Allowing  it,  the  Prince  and  Enid  rode. 
And  fifty  knights   rode    with  them,  to 

the  sliores 
OfSevern,  and  they  past  to  theirown  land; 
Where,  thinking,  that  if  everyet  was  wife 
True  to  Iier  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me. 
He  compass'd  her  with  sweet  observances 
And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and  grew 
Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  king. 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt. 
Forgetful  of  tiie  tilt  and  tournament. 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name. 
Forgetful  of  his  piincedom  and  its  cares. 
And  this  foi-getfulness  was  hateful  to  her. 
And  by  and  by  the  people,  when  they  met 
In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies. 
Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of  him 
As  of  a  prince  whose  manhood  wasallgone. 
And  molten  down  in  mere  uxoriousness. 
And  this  she  gather' d  from  the  people's 

eyes  : 
This  too  the  woman  who  attired  her  head,. 
To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  boundless 

love. 
Told  Enid,  and  they  sadden'd  her  the 

more  . 
And   day   by   day  she  thought  to  tell 

Geraint, 
But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy  ; 


136 


GERAINT   AJS'L>  ENID 


While  he  that  watch'il  her  sadden,  was 

the  more 
Suspicious  that  lier  nature  had  a  taint. 

At  last  it  clianced  that  on  a  summer 
morn 
(They  sleeping  each  by  either)  the  new  sun 
Beat  thro'  the  blindless  casement  of  the 

room, 
And  heated  the  strong  warrior  iu  his 

dreams  ; 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside. 
And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his 

throat, 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast. 
And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle 

sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Kunning  too  veliemently  to  break  upon  it. 
And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  tlie  couch, 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  her- 
self, 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he  ? 
Then,  like  a  shadow,  past  the  people  s  talk 
And  accusation  of  uxoriousuess 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him, 
Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously  she  said  : 


"0  noble  breast  and  all-puissant  arms, 
Am  I  the  cause,  I  the  poor  cause  tliat  men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is 

gone  ? 
I  am  the  cause  because  I  dare  not  sjjcak 
And  tell  him  wliat  I  think  and  what  they 

say. 
And  yet  I  hate  that  he  should  linger  here ; 
1  cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 
Far  liever  had  I  gird  his  harness  on  him, 
And  ride  with  him  to  battle  ami  stand  by, 
And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking 

great  blows 
At  caitiffs  and  at  wrongers  of  the  world. 
Far  better  were  I  laid  in  the  dark  earth. 
Not  hearing  Any  more  his  noble  voice. 
Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear  arms, 
And  darken'd  from  the  high  light  in  his 

eye-s. 
Than  that  my  lord  thro'  me  should  suffer 

shame. 
Am  I  so  bold,  and  could  I  so  stand  by. 
And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the  strife, 
Or  maybe  pierced  to  death  before  mine 

eyes. 
And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I  think. 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his  force 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


137 


Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy  ? 

0  me,  I  fear  that  I  am  no  true  wife." 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke, 
And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made  her 

weep 
Ti'ue  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked 

breast. 
And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  grea't  mis- 
chance 
He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later  words, 
And  that  she  fear'dshe  wasnotatrue  wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  "In  spite  of  all  my 

care, 
Forallmypains,poorman,forallmypains, 
She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  1  see  her 
Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in  Arthur's 

hall." 
Then  tho'  he  loved  and  reverenced  her 

too  much 
To  dream  she  could  be  guilty  of  foul  act, 
Right  thro'  his  manful  Ijreast  darted  the 

pang 
That  makes  a  man,  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  misera- 
ble. 
Atthishehurl'dhishuge  limbs  out  of  bed. 
And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake  and 

cried, 
"My  charger  and  her  palfrey,"  then  to  her, 
"  I  will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness  ; 
For  tho'  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to  win, 

1  have  notfaH'usolowassome  would  wish. 
And  you,  put  on  your  worst  and  meanest 

dress 
And  ride  with  me."     And  Enid  ask'd, 

amazed, 
"If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  foult." 
But  he,  ' '  I  charge  you,  ask  not  but  obey . " 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a  faded  silk, 
A  faded  mantle  and  a  faded  veil, 
And  moving  toward  a  cedarn  cabinet, 
Wherein  .she  kept  them  folded  reverently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between  the 

folds, 
She  took  them,  and  array'd  herself  therein, 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved 

her  in  it, 
A.nd  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
A.nd  all  his  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 

court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  before 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  on  a  day,  he  sitting  high  iu  hall. 


Before  him  came  a  forester  of  Dean, 
Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a  liart 
Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky-white. 
First  seen  that  day  :  these  things  he  told 

the  king. 
Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let  blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow 

morn. 
And  when  the  Queen  peti'tion'd  for  his 

leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow'd  it  easily. 
So  with  the  morning  all  the  court  were 

gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn. 
Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of 

her  love 
For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt ; 
But  rose  at  last,  a  single  maiden  with  her. 
Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and  gain'd 

the  wood  ; 
There,  on  a  little  knoll  beside  it,  stay'd 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds  ;  but  heard 

instead 
A  sudden  sound   of  hoofs,    for   Prince 

Geraint, 
Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting-dress 
Nor  weapon,  save  a  golden-hilted  brand. 
Came  quickly  flashing  thro'  the  .shallow 

ford 
Behind  them,  andsogallop'duptheknoU. 
A  purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 
There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest  gold, 
Sway'd  round  about  him,  ashegallop'd  up 
To  join  them,  glancing  like  a  dragon-fly 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 
Low  bow'd  the  tributary  Prince,  and  she, 
Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  answer'd 

him  : 
"  Late,  late,  Sir  Prince,"  she  said,  "  later 

than  we  ! " 
"Yea,  noble  Queen,"  he  answer'd,  "and 

so  late 
That  I  but  come  like  you  to  see  the  hunt; 
Not  join  it."    "  Therefore  wait  with  me," 

she  said  ; 
"  For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere. 
There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall  hear 

the  hounds  : 
Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our  feet." 

And  while  thej^  iisten'd  for  the  distant 

hunt. 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 
King  Arthur's  hound  of  deepest  mouth, 

there  rode 
Full  slowly  by  a  knight,  lady,  and  dwarfs 


138 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg'd  latest,  and  the 

knight 
Had  visor  up,  and  show'd  a  youthful  face, 
Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  lineaments. 
And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 
In  the  king's  hall,  desired  his  name,  and 

sent 
Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf ; 
Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable, 
Anddoublingallhismaster's  vice  of  pride. 
Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should  not 

know. 
"Then  will  I  ask  it  of  himself,"  she  said. 
"  Nay,  bymy  faith,  thou  shaltnot,"  cried 

the  dwarf ; 
"Thou  art  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak  of 

him  "  ; 
And  Avhen  she  put  her  horse  toward  the 

knight. 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  re- 

turn'd 
Indignant  to  the  Queen  ;  whereat  Geraint 
Exclaiming,    ' '  Surely  1   will  learn  the 

name," 
Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask'd  it 

of  him. 
Who  answer'd  as  before  ;  and  when  the 

Prince 
Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward  the 

knight. 
Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut  his 

cheek. 
The  Prince's  blood  sjDirted  upon  the  scarf, 
Dyeing  it ;  and  liis  quick,  instinctive  hand 
Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him  : 
But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manfulness 
And  pure  nobility  of  temperament. 
Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a  worm,  re- 
frain'd 
From  ev'n  a  word,  and  so  returning  said  : 

' '  I  will  avenge  this  insult,  noble  Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden's  person  to  yourself : 
And  1  will  track  this  vermin  to  their 

earths  : 
For  tho'  1  ride  unarm'd,  1  do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I  shall  come  at,  arms 
On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ;  and,  being 

found. 
Then  will  I  light  him,  and  will  break  his 

pride. 
And  on  the  third  day,  will  again  be  here. 
So  that  I  be  not  fall'n  in  fight.   Farewell . " 

"Farewell,  fair  Prince,"  answer'd  the 
stately  Queen! 
*'  Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in  all ; 


And  may  ye  light  on  all  things  that  ye 

love, 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  ye 

love  : 
But   ere  ye  wed  with  any,  bring  your 

bride. 
And  I,  were  she  the  daughter  of  a  king. 
Yea,  tho'  she  were  a  beggar  from  the  hedge. 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the 

sun." 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking  that 
he  heard 
The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far  horn, 
A  little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 
A  little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 
By  ups  and  downs,  thro'  many  a  grassy 

glade 
And  valley,  with  fixt  eye  following  the 

three. 
Atlast  theyissued  from  the  world  of  wood, 
And  climb'd  upon  a  fair  and  even  ridge, 
And  show'd  themselves  against  the  sky, 

and  sank. 
And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  under- 
neath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley,  on  one  side  whereof, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  a  fortress 

rose  ; 
And  on  one  side  a  castle  in  decay, 
Beyond  a  bridge  thatspann'dadryravine  : 
And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a  noise 
As  of  a  broad  brook  o'er  a  shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the  three, 
And  enter'd,  and  were  lost  behind  the 

walls. 
"So,"  thought  Geraint,  "  I  have  track'd 

him  to  his  earth." 
And  down  the  long  street  riding  wearily, 
Found  every  hostel  full,  and  everywhere 
Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot  hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who 

scour'd 
His  master's  armor  ;  and  of  such  a  one 
He  ask'd,  "  What  means  the  tumult  in 

the  town  ?" 
Who  told  him,  scouring  stiU  "  The  spar- 
row-hawk ! " 
Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient  churl, 
Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping  beam. 
Went  sweating  underneath  a  sack  of  corn, 
Ask'd  yet  once  more  what  meant  the  hub- 
bub here  ? 


GERAINT   A-NL)    EN  IB. 


139 


'  Beheld  the  long  street  of  a  little  town 
In  a  long  valley." 


Who  answer' d  gruffly,      Ugh  !  the  spar- 
row-hawk." 
Then  riding  further  past  an  armorer's, 
Who,  with  back  turn'd,  and  bow'd  above 

his  work, 
Sat  riveting  a  hehiiet  on  his  knee. 
He  put  the  self-.same  query,  but  the  man 
Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him, 

said : 
"Friend,  lie  that  labors  for  the  sparrow- 
hawk 
Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners." 
Whereat    Geraint    flash'd   into    sudden 

spleen  : 
"A  thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow- 
hawk  '. 


Tits,  wrens,  and  allwing'd  nothings  peck 
him  dead  ! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 

The  murmur  of  the  world  !  What  is  it 
to  me  ? 

0  wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all. 

Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow- 
hawks  ! 

Speak,  if  ye  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk- 
mad. 

Where  can  I  get  me  harborage  for  the 
night  ? 

And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my  enemy  i 
Speak  ! " 

At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 

And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks, 


140 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in  hand 
And  answer' d,  ' '  Pardon  me,  0  stranger 

kniglit ; 
We  hohl  a  tourne}'  here  to-morrow  morn, 
And  there  isscantly  time  for  half  the  work. 
Arms  ?  truth !  I  know  not :  all  are  wanted 

here. 
Harborage  ?  truth,  good  truth,  I  know 

not,  save, 
It  may  be,  at  Earl  Ynior.s,  o'er  the  bridge 
Yonder. "  He  spoke  and  fell  to  work  again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a  little  sjdeenful 

yet. 

Across  the  bridge  that  spann'd  the  dry 

ravine. 
There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 
(His  dress  a  suit  of  fray'd  magnifieence. 
Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and  said  •. 
"Whither,  fair  son  '("  to  whom  Geraint 

replied, 
"  0  friend,   I  seek  a  harborage  for  the 

night." 
Then  Yniol,  "Enter  therefore  and  partake 
The  slender  entertainment  of  a  house 
Once   rich,    now   poor,   but  ever   open- 

door'd." 
"Thanks,  venerable  friend,"  replied  Ge- 
raint ; 
"So  that  ye  do  not  serve  me  sparrow- 
hawks 
For  supper,  1  ^\■ill  enter,  I  will  eat 
With  all  the  passion  of  a  twelve  hours' 

fast." 
Then  sigh'd  and  smiled  the  hoarv-headed 

Earl, 
And  answer'd,  ' '  Gi'avei-  cause  than  yours 

is  mine 
To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  sjiarrow- 

hawk  : 
But  in,  go  in  ;  for  save  yourself  desire  it, 
We  will  not  touch  upon  him  ev'n  in  jest." 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle  court, 
Hischarger  trampling  many  a  prieklystar 
Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  Ijroken  stones. 
He  look'd  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a  shatter'd  archway  plumed 

with  fei  u  ; 
And  here  had  fali'n  a  great  part  of  a  tower. 
Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the 

cliff; 
And  hke  a  crag  was  gay  with  wilding 

flowers  : 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair. 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  sileut, 

wound 


Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  i%'5'-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy-fibred 

arms. 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and 

look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a  gix)ve. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle  court, 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol's  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro'  the  open  casement  of  the  Hall, 
Singing  ;   and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a 

bird, 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a  lonely  isle, 
]Mo\  es  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird 

it  is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the  form; 
So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  G  eraint ; 
And  made  him  like  a  man  abroad  at  morn 
When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of 

men 
Comes  flying  over  man}'  a  windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a  coppice  gemm'd  with  green 

and  red, 
And  he   suspends  his  converse   with  a 

friend. 
Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands, 
To  think  or  say,  "there  is  the  nightin- 
gale "  ; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought  and 

said, 
"Here,  bj'  God's  grace,  is  the  one  voice 

for  me." 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang  was 
one 
Of  Fortuneandherwheel,  and  Enid  sang  : 

"Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and 

lower  the  proud  ; 
Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro'  sunshine,  storm, 

and  cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

hate. 

"Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with 
smile  or  frown  ; 
With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 
great. 

"Smile  and   we   smile,    the  lords  of 

many  lands  ; 
Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  o^^ii 

hands ; 
For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


141 


"Turn,    turn   thy    wheel   above    the 

staring  crou'd  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the 

cloud  ; 
Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor 

hate."' 

"  Hark,  by  the  bird's  song  you  may 
learn  the  nest" 
Said  Yuiol  ;   "  Enter  quickly."     Enter- 
ing then, 
Bight  o'er  a  mount  of  newly-fallen  stones, 
The  dusky-rafter'd  many-cobweb'd  Hall, 
He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  bro- 
cade ; 
And  near  her,   like  a  blossom  vermeil- 
white, 


That  lightly  breaks  a  faded  flower-sheath, 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk. 
Her   daughter.      In  a  moment  thought 

Geraint, 
"  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for 

me." 
But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary 

Earl : 
"Enid,  the  good  knight's  horse  stands  iii 

the  court ; 
Take  him  to  stall,  and   give  him  corn, 

and  then 
Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and 

wine ; 
And  we  will  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are 

great." 


**  In  a  moment  thought  Gfjraiat, 
'  Here  by  God's  rood  is  the  one  maid  for  me.' 


142 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


He  spake  :  the  Prince,  as  Enid  past 

liim,  fain 
To  follow,  strode  a  stride,  but  Yniol  caught 
His  purple   scarf,  and   held,    and  said 

' '  Forbear ! 
Rest !  the  good  house,  tho'  ruin'd,  0  my 

Son, 
Endures  not  that  her  guest  should  serve 

himself." 
And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the  house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall ; 
And  after  went  her  way  across  the  bridge. 
And   reach'd   the   town,  and  while  the 

Prince  and  Earl 
Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with  one, 
Ayouth,  that  following  with  a  costrel  bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh  and 

wine. 
And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make 

them  cheer. 
And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet  bread. 
And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also 

serve 
For  kitchen,  boil'd  the  flesh,  and  spread 

the  board. 
And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the  three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  serviceable, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little  thumb, 
That  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it  down  : 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 
For  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his 

veins, 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  handmaid-work. 
Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky  hall ; 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl : 

"  Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I  pray  your  courtesy ; 
This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me 

of  him. 
His  name  ?  but  no,  good  faith,  I  will  not 

have  it : 
For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I  saw 
Ride  into  that  new  fortress  by  your  town, 
White  from  the  mason's  hand,  then  have 

I  sworn 
From   his  own   lips  to  have  it  —  I  am 

Geraint 
Of  Devon  —  for  this  morning  when  the 

Queen 
Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the  name. 
His  dwarf,  a  vicious  under-shapen  thing, 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  re- 
turn'd 


Indignant  to  the  Queen  ;  and  then  I  swore 
That  I  would  track  this  caitiff  to  his  hold, 
And  light  and  break  his  pi'ide,  and  have 

it  of  him. 
And  all  unarm  'd  I  rode,  and  thought  to  find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men 

are  mad  ; 
They  take  the  rustic  mirnnur  of  their  bourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  thf 

world  ; 
They  would  not  hear  me  speak  :  but  if 

ye  know 
Where  I  can  light  on  arips,  or  if  yourself 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  1  have 

sworn 
That  I  will  break  his  pride  and  learn  hh: 

name, 
Avenging   this   gi-eat    insult   done    the 

Queen." 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol.     "  Art  thou  he 

indeed, 
Geraint,  a  name  far-sounded  among  men 
For  noble  deeds  ?  and  truly  I,  when  first 
I  saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge. 
Felt   you   were  somewhat;  yea  and  by 

your  state 
And  presence  might  have  guess'd  you  one 

of  those 
That  eat  in  Arthur's  hall  at  Camelot. 
Nor  speak  I  now  from  foolish  flattery  ; 
For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard  me 

praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  1 

paused 
Hath  ask'd  again,  and  ever  loved  to  hear  ; 
So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of  wrong  • 

0  never  yet  had  woman  such  a.  pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  maiden  ;  first  Limours, 
A  creature  wholly  given  to  brawls  and 

wine, 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo'd  ;  and  be  ht 

dead 

1  know  not,  but  he  past  to  the  wild  land. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow- 
hawk. 

My  curse,  my  nephew  —  I  will  not  let 
his  name 

Slip  from  my  lips  if  I  can  help  it  —  he, 

When  I  that  knew  him  fierce  a^id  turbu- 
lent 

Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride  awoke ; 

And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the 
mean. 

He  sow'd  a  .slander  in  the  common  ear, 

Affirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold. 


GERAINT  AND   ENID, 


143 


And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  ren- 

der'd  to  him  ; 
Bribed  with  huge  promises  the  men  who 

served 
About  my  person,  the  more  easily 
Because  mymeans  were  somewhat  broken 

into 
Thro'  open  door-s  and  hospitality  ; 
Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  the 

night 
Before  my  Enid's  birthday,  sack'd  my 

house ; 
From  mine  own  earldomfoullyoustedme ; 
Built  fhat  new  fort  to  overawe  m}' friends. 
For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me  yet ; 
And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle  here, 
Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon 

to  death, 
But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises  me  : 
And  I  myself  sometimes  despise  myself ; 
For  1  have  let  men  be,  and  have  their  way ; 
Am  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my 

power  : 
Nor  know  I  whether  I  be  very  base 
Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 
Or  very  foolish  ;  only  this  I  know, 
That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 
I  seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb, 
But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently," 

"Well  said,  true  heart,"  replied  Ge- 

raint,  "but  arms  : 
That  if  the  sparrow-hawk,  this  nephew, 

fight. 
In  next  day's  tourney  I  may  break  his 

pride." 

And  Yniol  answer'd  "Arms,  indeed, 
but  old 
And  rusty,  old  and  rusty.  Prince  Geraint, 
Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  asking, 

yours. 
But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man  tilt. 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 
Two  fork  s  are  flxt  into  the  meadow  ground, 
And  over  these  is  laid  a  silver  wand. 
And  over  that  is  placed  the  sparrow-hawk. 
The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest  there. 
And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in  field 
Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side, 
And  tilts  with  my  goodnephew  thereupon, 
Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him. 
And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  earn'd  himself  the  name  of  sparrow- 
hawk  .  ; 
Butyou,  thathavenolady,  cannot  fight."  j 


To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all  bright 
replied. 
Leaning  a   little   toward   him,    "Your 

leave  ! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  0  noble  host, 
For  this  dear  child,  because  I  never  saw, 
Tho'  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our  time, 
Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so  fair. 
And  if  I  fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish'd  as  before  ;  but  if  I  live, 
So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  utter- 
most, 
As  I  will  make  her  truly  my  trae  wife." 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol's  heart 
Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better  days. 
And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid  there, 
(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had  slipt 

away) 
But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  full  tenderly 
And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  his  he  said, 
"  Jlother,  a  maiden  is  a  tender  thing, 
And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  understood. 
Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward  the 

Prince." 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl,  and 

she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing 

found. 
Half  disarray'd  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl  ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss'd  on  either  cheek, 

and  then 
On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a  hand, 
And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her  face, 
And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the 

hall, 
Proving  lier  lieart :  but  never  light  and 

shade 
Coursed  one  another  more  on  open  ground 
Beneath  a  troubled  heaven,  than  red  and 

pale 
Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her  ; 
While  slowly  falling  as  a  scale  that  falls, 
WhenAveightis  added  only  grain  by  grain, 
Sank  her  sweet   head   upon   her  gentle 

breast  ; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  eye  nor  speak  a  word, 
Rapt  in  the  ft>ar  and  in  the  wondtr  of  it ; 
So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail'd  to  draw 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness  ; 
And  when  the  pa?e  and   bloodless  east 

began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and  raised 


144 


GEEAINT   AND   ENID, 


Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they 

moved 
Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts 

were  held, 
And  waited  there  for  Yniol  and  Geraint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and  when 

Geraint 
Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him, 
He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily  force, 
Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could 

move 
The  chair  of  Idris.     Yniol's  rusted  arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro' 

these 
Princelike  his  bearing  shone  ;  and  errant 

knights 
And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the  town 
Flow'd  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the 

lists. 
And  there  they  fixt  the  forks  into  the 

ground, 
And  over  these  they  placed  a  silver  wand 
And  over  that  a  golden  sparrow-hawk. 
Then    Yniol's    nephew,    after    trumpet 

blown, 
Spake   to  the   lady  with  him  and  pro- 

claim'd, 
"  Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the  fair. 
For  I  these  two  years  past  have  '.von  it 

for  thee, 
The  prize  of  beauty."    Loudly  spake  the 

Prince, 
"Forbear  :  there  is  a  worthier,"  and  the 

knight 
With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much 

disdain 
Turn'd,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all  his 

face 
Glow'd  like  the  heart  of  a  great  fire  at 

Yule, 
So  burnt  lie  was  with  passion,  crying  out, 
"Do  battle  for  it  then,"  no  more  ;  and 

thrice  , 
They  clash'd  together,  and  thrice  they 

brake  their  spears. 
Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing,  lash'd 

at  each 
So  often  and  with  such  blows,  that  all 

the  crowd 
Wonder'd,  and  now  and  then  from  dis- 
tant walls 
There  came  a  clapping  as  of  phantom 

hands. 
So  twice  they  fought,  and   twice   they 

breathed,  and  still 
The  dewof  their  great  labor,  and  the  blood 


Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain'd 

their  force. 
But  eitlier's  foi'ce  was  match'd  till  Yniol's 

cry, 
"  Remember  that  gi-eat  insult  done  the 

Queen," 
Increased  Geraint's,  who  heaved  his  blade 

aloft. 
And  crack'd  the  helmet  thro',  and  bit 

the  bone. 
And  fell'd  him,   and  set  foot  uison  his 

breast. 
And  said,  "  Thy  name  ?"  To  whom  the 

fallen  man 
Made  answer,  groaning,  ' '  Edyrn,  son  of 

Nudd  ! 
Ashamed  am  I  that  I  should  tell  it  thee. 
My  pride  is  broken  :  men  have  seen  my 

fall." 
"Then,    Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,"  replied 

Geraint, 
"  These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  else 

thou  diest. 
First,  thou  thyself,  thy  lady,  and  thy 

dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur's  court,  and  being 

there. 
Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the 

Queen, 
And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  it ;  next, 
Thou  .shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to  thy 

kin. 
These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou 

.shalt  die." 
And  Edvrn  ans'ver'd,  ' '  These  things  will 

l"  do, 
For  I  have  never  yet  been  overthrown, 
And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my 

pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall !  " 
And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur's  court, 
And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him  easily. 
And  being  young,  he  changed,  and  came 

to  loathe 
His  crime  of  traitor,  slowly  drew  himself 
Bright  from  his  old  dark  life,  and  fell  at 

last 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the  hunt- 
ing-morn 

Made  a  low  splendor  in  the  world,  and 
wings 

Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 

"With  her  fiiir  head  in  the  dim -yellow 
light. 

Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  birds, 


'And  fell'd  him,  and  set  foot  on  his  breast.''     See  page  144 


GERAINT   AND    ENID. 


145 


Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  promise 

given 
No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Geraint — 
So  bent  he  seem'd  on  going  the  third  day, 
He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  promise 

given  — 
To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the  court, 
And  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately 

Queen, 
And  there  be  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 
At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  dress. 
And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look'd  so 

mean. 
For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to  the 

dress 
She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint. 
And  still  she  look'd,  and  still  the  terror 

grew 
Of  that  strange  brightand  dreadful  thing, 

a  court, 
All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk  : 
And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she  said : 

"  This  noble  prince  who  won  our  earl- 
dom back. 
So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire. 
Sweet  heaven,  how  much  I  shall  discredit 

him  ! 
Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  here  awhile  ' 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince, 
H  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us. 
Bent  as  he  seem'd  on  going  this  third  day, 
To  seek  a  second  favor  at  his  hands. 
Yet  if  he  could  but  tarry  a  day  or  two, 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  fiuger 

lame. 
Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him." 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a  dress 
All  branch'd  and  flower'd  with  gold,  a 

costly  gift 
Of  hergood  mother,  givenher  onthe  night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years  ago. 
That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyi'n  sack'd 

their  house, 
Andscatter'd  all  they  had  to  all  the  winds : 
For  while  the  mother  show'd  it,  and  the 

two 
Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 
To  both  appear' d  so  costly,  rose  a  ciy 
That  EdjTn's  men  were  on  them,  and 

they  fled 
With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on. 
Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought 

them  bread  : 


And  Edyrn's  men  had  caught  them  in 

their  flight, 
And  placed  them  in  this  ruin  ;  and  she 

wish'd 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  ancient 

home  ; 
Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past. 
And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she  knew ; 
And  last  bethought  her  how  she  used  to 

watch, 
Near  that  old  home,  a  pool  of  golden  carp  ; 
And  one  was  patch'd  and  blurr'd  and 

lustreless 
Amonghisburnish'd  brethrenof  the  pool ; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
xlnd  the  gay  coiut,  and  fell  asleep  again  ; 
And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a  faded  form 
Among  her  burnish'd  sisters  of  the  pool ; 
But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a  king  ; 
And  tho'  shelay  dark  in  the  pool,  she  knew 
That  all  was  bright ;  that  all  about  were 

birds 
Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work  ; 
That  all  the  tuif  was  rich  in  plots  that 

look'd 
Each  like  a  garnet  or  a  turkis  in  it ; 
And  lords  and  ladies  of  the  high  court 

went 
In  silver  tissue  talking  things  of  state  ; 
And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of  gold 
Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol'd  down 

the  walks  ; 
And  while  she  thought  "they  will  not 

see  me,"  came 
A  stately  queen  whose  name  was  Guine- 
vere, 
And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of  gold 
Ran  to  her,  crying,  ' '  if  we  have  fish  at  all 
Let  them  be  gold  ;  and  charge  the  gar- 
deners now 
To  pick  the  faded  creature  from  the  pool, 
And  cast  it  on  the  mixen  that  it  die." 
And  therewithal  one  came  and  seized  on 

her. 
And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her  heart 
All  overshadow'd  by  the  foolish  dream. 
And  lo  !  it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 
To  get  her  well  awake  ;  and  in  her  hand 
A  suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exultingly  : 

"See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the 

colors  look. 
How  fast  they  hold  like  colors  of  a  shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the 

wave. 


146 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


Why  not  ?  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I  trow  : 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  ye  know 
it." 

And  Enid  look'd,  but  all  confused  at 

first, 
Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish 

dream  : 
Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  rejoiced, 
A.nd  answer'd,  "Yea,  I  know  it;  j^our 

good  gift, 
So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night ; 
Your  own  good  gift!"   "Yea,  surely," 

said  the  dame, 
"  Andgladlj^given  again  thishappy  morn. 
For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yesterday, 
Went  Yniol  thro'  the  town,  and  everj^- 

where 
He  found  tln^  sack  an  d  plunder  of  our  house 
All   scatter'd   thro'   the   houses   of  the 

town  ; 
And  gave  command  that  all  which  once 

was  ours, 
Should  now  be  oursagain  :  andyester-eve. 
While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with  your 

Prince 
Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  myhand, 
For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of  us. 
Because  we  have  our  earldom  back  again. 
And  yester-eve  1  would  not  tell  you  of  it, 
But  kept  it  for  a  sweet  surprise  at  morn. 
Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a  sweet  surprise  ? 
For  I  m3'self  unwillingly  have  worn 
My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have  you  rs. 
And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 
Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a  goodly  house. 
With  store  of  rich  apparel.sumptuousfare, 
And  page,  and  maid,  and    squire,  and 

seneschal, 
And  pastime  both  of  hawk  and  hound, 

and  all 
That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 
Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a  goodly  house ; 
But  since  our  fortune  slipt  from  sun  to 

shade. 
And  all  thro'  that  young  traitor,   cruel 

need 
Constrain'dus,  butabettertimehascome ; 
So  clotlie  yourself  in  this,  tliat  better  fits 
Our  mended  fortunesand  a  Prince'sbride  : 
For  tho'  ye  won  the  prize  of  fairest  fair, 
And  tho'  1  heard  him  call  you  fairest  fair, 
Let  never  maiden  tliink,  however  fair, 
She  is  not  fairer  ia  new  clothes  than  old. 
And  should  some  great  court-lady  say, 

the  Pi'ince 
Hath  pick'd  a  ragged-robin  from  the  hedge, 


And  like  a  madman  brought  her  to  the 

court, 
Then  were  ye  shamed,  and,  worse,  might 

shame  the  Prince 
To  whom  we  are  beholden  ;  but  I  know, 
When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her 

best. 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho'  they 

sought 
Thro'  all  the  provinces  like  those  of  old 
That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her 

match." 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out  of 

breath  ; 
And  Enid  listen'd  brighteningas  she  lay ; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star  of 

morn 
Parts  from  a  bank  of  snow,  and  by  and  by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden  rose, 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed 

herself, 
Help'd  by  the  mother's  careful  hand  and 

eye. 
Without  a  mirror,  in  the  gorgeous  gown  ; 
Who,  after,  turn'd  her  daughter  round, 

and  said. 
She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  .so  fair; 
And  call'd  her  like  that  maiden  in  the 

tale, 
Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out 

of  flowers. 
And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassivelaun, 
Flur,  for  wliose  love  the  Roman  Caesar 

first 
Invaded  Britain,  ' '  but  we  beat  him  back. 
As  this  great  prince  invaded  us,  and  we. 
Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him 

with  joy. 
And  1  can  scarcel3n'ide  with  you  to  court. 
For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and 

wild  ; 
But  Y  liol  goes,  and  I  full  oft  shall  dream 
I  see  my  princess  as  I  see  her  now. 
Clothed  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among  the 

gay-" 

But  while  the  women   thus  rejoiced, 

Geraint 
Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall, 

and  call'd 
For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  queen, 
He  answer'd  ;  "  Earl,  entreat  her  by  my 

love, 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


Ii7 


Albeit  I  give  no  reason  but  my  wish, 
That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk." 
Yniol  with  that  liard  message  went  ;  it 

fell, 
Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  corn  : 
For  Enid  all  abash'd  she  knew  not  why, 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother's 

face. 
But  silently,  in  all  obedience, 
Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her. 
Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broider'd 

gift, 
And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit  again, 
And  so  descended.     Never  man  rejoiced 
More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus  at- 
tired ; 
And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  her. 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil, 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid 

fall. 
But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied  ; 
Then seeingcloud  upon  the  mother'sbrow. 
Her  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and  sweet- 
ly said. 

"0  my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or 

grieved 
At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When  late  1  leftCaerleon,  our  great  Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  la.sts,  they  were  so 

sweet. 
Made   promise,    that   whatever   bride  I 

brought, 
Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun  in 

Heaven. 
Thereafter,  when  I  reach'd  this   ruin'd 

hold. 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 
I  vow'd  that  could  I  gain  her,  our  kind 

Queen, 
No  hand  but   hers,  should  make   your 

Enid  burst 
Sunlike     from     cloud  —  and     likewise 

thought  perhaps, 
That  service  done  so  graciously  would  bind 
The  two  together  ;  for  I  wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other  :  how  should  Enid  find 
A  nobler  friend  ?    Another  thought  1  had  ; 
I  came  among  you  here  so  suddenly. 
That  tho'  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I 

was  loved, 
I  doubted  whether  filial  tenderness, 
Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal  ; 
Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own 

self 


Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall ; 
And  such  a  sense  might  make  her  long 

for  court 
And  all   its   dangerous   glories :    and   I 

thought. 
That  could  1  someway  prove  such  force 

in  her 
Link'd  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a 

Avord 
(No   reason   given  Ler)  she   could  cast 

aside 
A  splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her, 
And  therefore  dearer  ;  or  if  not  so  new, 
Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the  power 
Of  intermitted  custom  ;  then  I  felt 
That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and  flows, 
Fixt  on  her  faith.     Now,  therefore,  I  do 

rest, 
A  prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy, 
That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 
Between  us.     Grant  me  pardon  for  my 

thoughts : 
And  for  my  strange  petition  I  will  make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-da}^. 
When   your  fair   cliild  shall  wear  your 

costly  gift 
Beside  your  own  warm  health,  with,  on 

her  knees, 
Who  knows?  anothergiftofthe  high  God, 
Which,  maybe,  .shall  liave  learn'd  to  lisp 

you  thanks." 

He   spoke :   the   mother    smiled,  but 

half  in  tears. 
Then  brought  a  mantle  down  and  wrapt 

her  in  it. 
And  claspt  and  kiss'd  her,  and  they  rode 

away. 

Now  thrice   that  morning  Guinevere 

had  climb'd 
The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high  crest, 

they  say, 
Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea  • 
But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look'd  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale 

of  Usk, 
By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them 

come  ; 
And  then  descending  met  them  at  the 

gates. 
Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a  friend, 
And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince's  biide. 
And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like  the 


148 


GEKAUST  AUD   ENID. 


'  The  giant  tuwer,  fr  mi  «linsc  high  crest,  they  say, 
Men  saw  the  gordly  hills  of  Somerset, 
And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea." 


And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon  gay, 
For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high 

saint, 
They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  cere- 
mony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year's  Whit- 
suntide. 
But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk, 
Remembering  liow  first  he  came  on  her, 
Drest  in  th,-t  dress,  and  how  he  loved 

her  in  it, 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress, 
Andall  his  journey  towardher,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the 
court. 


And  now  this  morning  when  he  said 

to  her, 
"  Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress," 

she  found 
And  took  it,  and  array'd  herself  therein, 

0  purblind  race  of  miserable  men. 
How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  foige  a  life-long  trouble  for  ourselves. 
By  taking  tiue    for   false,   or  false   for 

true  ; 
Here,   thro'  the  feeble  twilight  of  this 

world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and 

reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen .' 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


149 


So  fared  it  with  Geraiut,  who  issuing 

forth 
Tliat  morning,  when  they  both  had  got 

to  horse, 
Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passionately, 
And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round  his 

heart, 
iVhich,  if  lie  spoke  at  all,  would  break 

perforce 
Upon  a  head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said  : 
"'  Not  at  my  side.    I  charge  you  ride  be- 
fore. 
Ever  a  good  way  on  before  ;  and  this 
I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a  wife. 
Whatever  liappens,  not  to  speak  to  ine. 
No,  not  a  word  !  "  and  Enid  was  aghast ; 
And   forth  they  rodi;,  but  scarce  three 

paces  on. 
When  crying  out  ' '  Effeminate  as  I  am, 
I    will   not  fight   my  way  with  gilded 

arms, 
Ml  shall  be  iron  "  ;  he  loosed  a  mighty 

purse, 
Hungathis  belt,  and  hurl'd  it  toward  the 

squire. 
So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  ilashing, 

strown 
With  gold  and  scatter'd  coinage,  and  the 

squire 
Chafing  his  shoulder ;  then  he  cried  again, 
"To  the  wilds  !  "  and  Enid  leading  down 

the  tracks 
Thro'  which  he  bade  her  lead  liim  on, 

they  past 
The   marches,    and   by   bandit-haunted 

holds. 
Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places  of 

the  hern 
And   wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they 

rode  : 
Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but  slackeu'd 

soon  : 
A    stranger   meeting   them   had   surely 

thought 
They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look'd  so 

pale, 
That  each  had  suff'er'd  some  exceeding 

wrong. 
For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself 
"01  that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon  her, 
To  compass  her  with  sweet  observances. 
To   dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her 

true  "  — 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his 

heart 
Abruptly,  as  a  man  upon  his  tongue 


May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters 

him. 
And   she    was   ever  praying  the   sweet 

heavens 
To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any 

wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself. 
Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and  sc 

cold  ; 
Till   the  great   plover's   human  whistle 

amazed 
Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste 

she  fear'd 
In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade. 
Then  thought  again  ' '  if  there  be  such  in 

nie, 
I  might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of  heaven, 
If  he  would  only  speakand  tell  me  of  it." 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day 

was  gone, 
Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall  knights 
On  horseback,   wholly  arm'd,  behind  a 

rock 
In   shadow,    waiting  for   them,    caitiffs 

all; 
And   heard   one   crying   to   his   fellow, 

"  Look, 
Here  comes  a  laggard  hanging  down  his 

head. 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a  beaten  hound; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have  his 

horse 
And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be  ours." 

Then  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart,  and 
said ; 
"  I  will  go  back  a  little  to  my  lord, 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk  ; 
For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me, 
Far  liever  by  his  dear  hand  had  1  die. 
Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss  o; 
shame." 

Then  she  went  back  .some  paces  of  v:- 

turn, 
Met  his   full   frown  timidly  firm,   and 

said  : 
' '  My  lord,  I  saw  three  bandits  by  the 

rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them 

boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess 

your  horse 
And  armor,  and  jour  damsel  should  be 

theirs." 


150 


GEKAINT  AND   ENID. 


He  made  a  wrathful  answer.     "  Did  I 
wish 
Your  warning  or  your  silence  ?  one  com- 
mand 
I  laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me, 
And  thus  you  keep  it !    Well  then,  look 

• —  for  now. 
Whether  you  wish  me  victory  or  defeat. 
Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my  death, 
Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not  lost." 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrowful. 
And  down   upon  him  bare  the  bandit 

three. 
And  at  the   midmost  charging.   Prince 

Geraint 
Drave  the  long  spear  a  cubit  thro*  his 

breast 
And  out  beyond  ;  and  then  against  his 

brace 
Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken 

on  him 
A  lance  that  splinter'd  like  an  icicle. 
Swung  from  his  brand  a  windy  buffet  out 
Once,  twice,  to  light,  to  left,  and  stunn'd 

the  twain 
Or  slew  them,  and  dismountinglikea  man 
That  skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying 

him, 
Stript  from   the  three  dead   wolves   of 

woman  born 
The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which  they 

wore, 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the 

suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  ' '  Drive  them  on 
Before  you  "  ;  and  she  drove  them  thro' 

the  waste. 

He  follow'd  nearer :  ruth  began  to  work 
Against  hisanger  in  him,  while  he  watch'd 
The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world, 
With  difficult}'  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on  :  he  fain  had  spoken  to 

her, 
And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the 

wrath 
And  smoulder'd  wrong  that  burnt  him 

all  within  ; 
But  evermore  it  seem'd  an  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her 

dead, 
Than  to  cry  "Halt,"  and  to  her  own 

bright  face 
Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty  : 


And  thus  tongue-tied,  it  made  him  wroth 

the  more 
That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own  ear 

had  heard 
Call  herself  false  :  and  suffering  thus  he 

made 
Minutes  an  age  :  but  in  scarce  longer  time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 
Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again, 
Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  behold 
In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a  deep  wood. 
Before  a  gloom  of  stubborn-shafted  oaks, 
Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly 

arm'd. 
Whereof  one  seem'd  far  larger  than  her 

lord. 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  "  Look,  a 

prize  ! 
Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of 

arms, 
And  all  in  charge  of  wlioni  ?  agirl :  set  on." 
"  Nay  "  said  the  second,  "yonder  comes 

a  knight." 
The  third,  ' '  A  craven  ;  how  he  hangs  his 

head." 
The  giant  answer'd  merrily,   "Yea,  but 

one  ? 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  upon 

him." 

And  Enid  ponder'd  in  her  heart  and 

said, 
"  I  will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord. 
And  I  will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 
My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before. 
And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 
I  needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good  ; 
How  should  I  dare  obey  him  to  his  harm  ? 
Needs  must  1  speak,  and  tho'  he  kill  me 

for  it, 
I  save  a  life  dearer  to  me  than  mine." 

And  she  abode  his  coming,  and  said  to 

him 
With  timid  firmness,  "Have  I  leave  to 

speak  ? " 
He  said,   "Ye  take  it,  speaking,"  and 

she  spoke. 

"There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in 

the  wood. 
And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm'd,  and 

one 
Is  larger-limb'd  than  you  are,  and  they 

say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  you 

pass." 


GEKAINT   AND   ENID. 


151 


To  which  he  flung  a  wrathful  answer 

back  : 
"And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the 

wood, 
And  every  man  were  larger-limb'd  than  I, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon  me, 
I  swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  mucli 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.     Stand  aside. 
And  if  I  fall,  cleave  to  the  better  man." 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  wait  the  event. 
Not  dare   to   watch   the   combat,    only 

breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a 

breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down 

upon  him. 
Aim'd  at  the  helm,  liis  lance  eiT'd  ;  but 

Geraint's, 
A  little  in  the  late  encounter  strain'd, 
Struck  tliro'  the  bulky  bandit's  corselet 

home. 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his  enemy 

roU'd, 
And  there  lav  still  ;  as  lie  that  tells  the 

tale. 
Saw  once  a  great  piece  of  a  promontory. 
That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-clitfs  windy  walls 

to  the  beach. 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling 

grew  : 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt.    His  craven  pair 
Of   comrades,   making  slowlier  at   the 

Prince, 
When  now  they  saw  their  bulwark  fallen, 

stood  ; 
On  whom  the  victor,  to  confound  them 

more, 
Spurr'd  with  his  terrible  war-cry  ;  for  as 

one. 
That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain- 
brook. 
All  thro'  theerash  of  thenearcataracthears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  linger  fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to  hear 
His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it, 
And  foemen  scared,  like  that  false  pair 

who  turn'd 
Fljang,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an 

innocent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick'd 
the  lance 
That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from 
those  dead  wolves 


Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each  from 

each. 
And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each  on 

caeli, 
And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  ' '  Drive  them  on 
Before  you,"  and  she  drove  them  thro' 

the  wood. 

He  follow'd  nearer  still :  the  pain  she  had 
To  keep  them  in  the  wild  ways  of  the  wood, 
Twosets  of  three  laden  with  jinglingarms. 
Together,  served  a  little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  tliat  pain  about  her  heart : 
And    they    themselves,    like    creatures 

gently  born 
But  into  bad  hands  fall'n,  and  now  so  long 
By  bandits  groom'd,  prick'd  their  light 

ears,  and  felt 
Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  governr 

ment. 

So  thro'  the  green  gloom  of  the  wood  they 

past. 
And  issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A  little  town  with  towers,  upon  a  rock, 
And  close  beneath,  a  meadow  gemlike 

chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mowers  mowing 

in  it  : 
And  down  a  rocky  pathway  from  the  place 
There  came  a  fair-hair'd  youth,  that  in 

his  liand 
Bare  victual  for  the  mowers  :  and  Geraint 
Had  ruth  again  on  Enid  looking  pale  : 
Then,  moving  downward  to  the  meadow 

ground. 
He,  when  the  fair-hair'd  youth  came  by 

him,  said, 
"Friend,  let  her  eat ;  the  damsel  is  so 

faint. " 
"Yea,  willingly,"   replied   the   youth; 

' ' and  you. 
My  lord,  eat  also,  tho'  the  fare  is  coarse, 
And  only  meet  for  mowers  "  ;  then  set 

down 
His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the  sward 
They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  ate  them- 
selves. 
And  Enid  took  a  little  delicately, 
Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord's  pleasure  ;  but 

Geraint 
Ate  all  the  mowers'  victual  unawares, 
And  when  he  found  all  empty,  was  amazed; 
And  "  Boy,"  said  he,  "I  have  eaten  all, 

but  take 


152 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


A  horse  and  arms  for  guerdon  ;  choose 

the  best." 
He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 
"  My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty-fold." 
"Ye  will  he  all  the  wealthier,"  cried  the 

Prince. 
"  I  take  it  as  free  gift,  then,"  said  the  boy, 
"  Not  guerdon  ;  for  myself  can  easily. 
While  your  good  dam.sel  rests,  return, 

and  fetch 
Fresh  victual  Ibr  these  mowers  of  our 

Earl  ; 
For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his, 
And  I  myself  am  his  ;  and  I  will  tell  him 
Howgreatamanyouare :  helovestoknow 
"When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory  : 
And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace  here. 
And  serve  you  costlier  than  with  mowers' 

fare." 

Then  said  Geraint,  "  I  wish  no  better 

fare  : 
I  never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 
Than  when  I  left  your  mowers  dinnerless, 
And  into  no  Earl's  palace  will  I  go. 
I  know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  palaces  ! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 
But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the 

night. 
And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us 

know." 

"Yea,  my  kind  lord,"  said  the  glad 
youth,  and  went, 
Held  his  liead  high,  and  thought  him- 
self a  knight. 
And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear'd. 
Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left 
alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  his 
errant  eyes 

Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let 
them  glance 

At  Enid,  where  she  droopt  :  his  own 
false  doom, 

That  shadow  cf  mistrust  should  never  cross 

Betwixt  theni;  came  upon  him,  and  he 
sigh'd  ; 

Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  re- 
mark'd 

The  lusty  mov>ers  laboring  dinnerless. 

And  watch'd  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turn- 
ing scj'the. 

And  after  nodded  sleepilj'  in  the  heat. 

But  she,  rememberingher  old  ruin'd  hall, 


And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
Aboutherhollow  turret,  pluck'dthe  gras.s 
There  growing  longest  by  the  meadow's 

edge. 
And  into  many  a  listless  annulet, 
Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage  ring. 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  return'd 
And  told  them  of  a  chamber,  and  they 

went ; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  "  If  ye  will, 
Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,"  to 

which 
She  answer'd,  "Thanks,  my  lord"  ;  the 

two  remain'd 
Apart  by  all  the  chamber's  width,  and 

mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro'  the  fault  of 

birth, 
Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a  shield, 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor 

glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a  sudden,  many  a  voice  along  the 

street, 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing, 

burst 
Their  drowse  ;  and  either  started  while 

the  door, 
Push'd  from  without,  drave  backward  to 

the  wall. 
And  midmost  of  a  rout  of  roisterers, 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale, 
Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 
Enter'd,    the   wild  lord   of   the  place, 

Limours. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness, 
Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but  stealthily, 
In   the    mid-warmth   of    welcome  and 

gi'aspt  hand. 
Found  Enid  with  the  corner  of  his  eye. 
And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 
Tlien  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly 

cheer 
To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sumptu- 

ously 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his  friends, 
And  feast  with  these  inhonorof  their  earl ; 
"  And  care  not  for  the  cost ;  the  cost  is 


And  wine  and  food  were  brought,  and 
Earl  Limours 
Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and  told 
Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and  play'd 
upon  it. 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


153 


And  made  it  of  two  colors  ;  for  his  talk, 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kindled 

him, 
Was  wont  toglance  and  sparklelike  agcm 
Of  fifty  facets  ;  thus  he  moved  the  Prince 
To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  applause. 
Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry,  ask'd 

Limours, 
"  Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room, 

and  speak 
To  your  good  damsel  there  who  sits  apart, 
And  seems  so  lonely  ? "   "  My  free  leave  " 

he  said  ; 
"Get  her  to  speak  :  she  does  not  speak 

to  me." 
Then  rose  Limours  andlookingat  his  feet, 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears 

may  fiiil, 
Crest  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring  eyes, 
Bow'd  at  her  side  and  utter'd  wliisper- 

ingly  : 

'•  Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 
Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 
Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  tum'd  me 

wild  — 
What  chance  is  this  ?  how  is  it  I  see  you 

here  ? 
You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my 

power. 
Yetfearmenot :  I  call  mine  own  self  wild. 
But  keep  a  touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  waste  and  wilderness. 
I   thought,  but  that   your  father  came 

between. 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 
And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back  : 
Make  me  alittle  happier  :  let  me  know  it : 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a  life  half-lost  ? 
Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you 

are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I  see  it  with  joy — 
You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him. 
You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or 

maid. 
To  serve  you  —  does  he  love  you  as  of  old  ? 
For,  call  it  lovers'  (quarrels,  yet  I  know 
Tho'  men  may  bicker  with  the  things 

they  love, 
They  would  not  make  them  laughable 

in  all  eyes, 
Not  while  they  loved  them  ;  and  your 

^vretched  dress, 
A  wretched  insult  on  j^ou,  dumbly  speaks 
Your  stor}%  that  this  man  loves  you  no 

more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now  . 


A  common  chance  —  right  well  I  know 

it  —  pall'd  — 
For  I  know  men  :  nor  will  ye  win  him 

back, 
For  the  man's  love  once  gone  never  returns. 
But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old  ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of  old  -. 
Good,   speak   the    word  :    my    followers 

ring  him  round  : 
He  sits  unarm'd  ;  I  hold  a  linger  up  ; 
They  understand  ;   no  ;  I  do  not  mean 

blood  : 
Nor  need  you  look  so  scared  at  what  I  say : 
My  malice  is  tio  deeper  than  a  moat, 
Nostrongerthanawall :  there  is  thekeep ; 
He  shall  not  cross  us  more  ;  speak  but 

the  word  : 
Or  speak  it  not ;  but  then  by  Him  that 

made  me 
The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 
I  will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I  have. 
0  pardon  me  !  the  madness  of  that  hour, 
When  first  I  parted  from  you,  moves  me 

yet." 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own 

voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancy  of  it. 
Made  his  eye  moist ;  but  Enid  fear'd  his 

eyes. 
Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from 

the  feast  ; 
And  answer'd  with  such  craft  as  women 

use. 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  olT  a  chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and 

said  : 

"  Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former  years, 
And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with 

morn. 
And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  violence  ; 
Leave  me  to-night  :  I  am  weary  to  the 

death." 

Low  at  leave-taking,  with  his  bran- 
dish'd  plume 
Brushing   his    instep,    bow'd    the    all- 
amorous  Earl, 
And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a  loud 

good-night. 
He  movinghomeward  babbled  to  his  men, 
How  Enid  never  loved  a  man  but  him. 
Nor  cared  a  broken  egg-shell  for  her  lord. 

But  Enid  !eft  alone  with  Prince  Geraint, 
Debating  his  command  of  silence  given, 


154 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


And  tliat  she  now  perforce  mi;st  violate  it, 
Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while 

she  held 
He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 
To  wake  him,  but  hung  o'er  him,  wholly 

pleased 
To  f.nd  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight, 
And  hear  him  breathing  low  and  equally. 
Anon  she   rose,   and   stepping  lightly, 

heap'd 
The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place. 
All  to  be  there  against  a  sudden  need  ; 
Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  overtoil'd 
By  that  day's  grief  and  travel,  evermore 
Seem'd  catching  at  a  rootless  thorn,  and 

then 
"Went  slipping  down  horrible  precipices. 
And  strongly   striking  out    her  limbs 

awoke  ; 
Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl  at 

the  door, 
With  all  his  rout  of  random  followers, 
Sound  on  a  dreadful  trumpet,  summon- 
ing her  ; 
Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to  the 

light. 
As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o'er  the  dewy 

world. 
And  glimnier'd  on  his  armor  in  the  room. 
And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it, 
But  touch'd  it  unawares :  jangling,  the 

casque 
Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at  her. 
Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence 

given. 
She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had 

said, 
Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her 

not ; 
Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had  used ; 
But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet. 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and 

seem'd 
So  justified  by  that  necessity. 
That  tlio'  he  thought  ' '  was  it  for  him 

she  wept 
In   Devon  ? "   he   but   gave   a  wrathful 

groan. 
Saying  "your   sweet   faces  make   good 

fellows  fools 
And  traitors.    Call  the  host  and  bid  him 

bring 
Charger  and  palfrey."    So  she  glided  out 
Amongthe  heavy  breathings  of  the  house. 
And  like  a  household  Spirit  at  the  walls 
Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and  re- 

turn'd  : 


Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho'  all  un- 

ask'd. 
In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a  squire  ; 
Till  issuing  arm'd  he  found  the  host  and 

cried, 
' '  Thy  reckoning,  friend  ? "  and  ere  he 

learnt  it,  ' '  Take 
Five  horses  and  their  armors  "  ;  and  the 

host. 
Suddenly  honest,  answer'd  in  amaze, 
' '  My  lord,  I  scarce  have  spent  the  worth 

of  one  ! " 
"Ye  will  be  all  the  wealthier,"  said  the 

Prince, 
And  then  to  Enid,  "Forward  !  and  to-day 
I  charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially. 
What  thing  soever  ye  may  hear,  or  see, 
Or  fancy  (tho'  I  count  it  of  small  use 
To   charge  you)  that   ye  speak  not  but 

obey." 

And  Enid  answer'd,  "Yea,  my  lord,  I 

know 
Your  M'ish,  and  would  obey  ;  but  riding 

first, 
I  hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not  hear, 
I  see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see  : 
Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that  seems 

hard  ; 
Almost  beyond  me  :  yet  I  would  obey. " 

' '  Yea  so, "  said  he,  "  do  it :  be  not  too 

wise  ; 
Seeing  that  ye  are  wedded  to  a  man. 
Not  quite   mismated   with  a  yawning 

clown. 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head  and 

yours, 
With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far. 
And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his  dreams." 

With  that   he  turn'd   and   look'd  aa 

keenly  at  her 
As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver's  toil  ; 
And  that  within  her,  which  a  wanton 

fool, 
Or  hasty  judger  would  have  call'd  her 

guilt. 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall. 
And  Geraint  look'd  and  was  not  satisfied. 

Then  forward  by  a  way  which,  beaten 

broad. 
Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 
To  the  Avaste  earldom  of  another  earl, 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call'd 

the  Bull, 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


156 


Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 
Once  she  look'd  back,  and  when  she  saw 

him  ride 
More  near  by  many  a  rood  than  yester- 

morn, 
It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful ;  till  Ge- 

raint 
Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should  say 
"Ye  watch  me,"  sadden'd  all  her  heart 

again. 
But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a  dewy  blade. 
The  sound  of  many  a  heavily-galloping 

hoof 
Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round  she 

saw 
Dust,  and  the  points  of  lancesbickerin  it. 
Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord's  behest, 
And  yet  to  give  liim  warning,  for  he  rode 
As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she  lield 
Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 
At  which  the  warrior  in  his  oljstinacy, 
Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 
Was  in  a  manner  pleased,  and  turning, 

stood. 
And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limour.s, 
Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder- 
cloud 
Whose  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  breaking 

storm. 
Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he  rode. 
And  all  in  passion  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 
Dash'd  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with  him, 

and  bore 
Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm 

beyond 
The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn'd  or 

dead. 
And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow'd  him. 
And  l)lindly  rush'd  on  all  the  rout  behind. 
But  at  the  Hash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They  vanish'd  panic-stricken,  like  a  shoal 
Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a  summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dykes  at  Camelot 
Come  slipping  o'er  their  shadows  on  the 

■sand. 
But  if  a  man  who  stands  npon  the  brink 
But  lift  a  .shining  hand  against  the  sun. 
There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a  fin 
Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in  flower. 
So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man. 
Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  Earl, 
And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way  ; 
So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in  wine. 

Then   like  a  stormy  sunlight  smiled 
Geraint, 
Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that  fell 


Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly 

Hy, 

Mixt  with  the  fliers.     "  Horse  and  man," 

he  said, 
"All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest 

friends  ! 
Not  a  hoof  left :  and  I  methinks  till  now 
Was  honest —  paid  with  horses  and  with 

arms  ; 
I  caTinot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg  : 
And  so  what  say  ye,  shall  we  strip  him 

there 
Yourlover  ?  lias  your  palfrey  heart  enough 
To  bear  his  aimor  ?  shall  we  fast,  or  dine  ? 
No  ?  — •  then  do  you,  being  right  honest, 

pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of  Earl 

Doorm, 
1  too  would  still  be  honest."     Thus  he 

said  : 
And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins, 
And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led  the 

way. 

But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land  and  he  knows  it  not. 
But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the  loss 
So   pains  him  that   he  sickens  nigh  to 

death  ; 
Sofareditwith  Geraint,  whobeingprick'd 
In  combat  with  the  follower  of  Limours, 
Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly. 
And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail'd  him,  hardlv  knowing  it  him- 
self. 
Till  his  eye   darken'd  and   his  helmet 

wagg'd  ; 
And  at  a  sudden  .swerving  of  the  road, 
Tho'  happily  down  on  a  bank  of  grass, 
The  Prince,  without  a  word,  from  his 
horse  fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall, 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,   loosed   the   fastenings  of 

his  arms. 
Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,    till   she    had  lighted   on   his 

wound. 
And  tearing  off'  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering 

sun. 
And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain'd  her 

dear  lord's  life. 
Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do. 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 


156 


GERAINT  AND  ENID. 


And  many  past,  but  none  regarded  her, 
For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbulence, 
A  woman  weeping  for  her  murder'd  mate 
Was  cared  as   much  for  as   a  summer 

shower  : 
One  took  him  for  a  victim  of  Earl  Doorm, 
Nor  dared  to  waste  a  perilous  pity  on  him  : 
Another  liurrying  past,  a  man-at-arms, 
Kode  on  a  mission  to  the  bandit  Earl ; 
Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a  coarse 

song, 
L-^e  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless  eyes. 
Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in  liis 

fear  ; 
At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted 

heel, 
And  Bcour'd  into  the  coppices  and  was 

lost. 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved 

lilve  a  man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge  Earl 

Doorm, 
Broad-faced  with  under-fringe  of  russet 

beard, 
Bound  on  a  foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey. 
Came  riding  with  a  hundred  lances  up  ; 
But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a  ship, 
Cried  out  with  a  big  voice,  "  What,  is  he 

dead?" 
"  No,  no,  not  dead  !  "  she  answer'd  in  all 

haste. 
•'  Would  some  of  your  kind  people  take 

him  up, 
And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel  sun  : 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not  dead." 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm  ;  "  Well,  if  he 

be  not  dead. 
Why  wail  ye  for  him  thus  ?  ye  seem  a 

child. 
And  be  he  dead,  1  count  you  for  a  fool  ; 
Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him  :  dead 

or  not. 
Ye  mar  a  comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 
Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely  —  some  of 

you. 

Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to  our 

hall : 
An  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our 

band  ; 
And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth  enough 
To  hide  him.    See  yetake  the  charger  too, 
A  noble  one." 

He  spake,  and  past  away. 


But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who  ad- 
vanced. 
Each  growling  like  a  dog,  when  his  good 

bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck'd  at  by  the  village  bojs 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he  fears 
To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot  upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling  :  so  the  ruffians 

giowl'd. 
Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a  dead  man, 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morning's 

raid  ; 
Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a  litter-bier, 
Such  asthey  broughtupontheirforaysout 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded  ;  laid 

him  on  it 
All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and  took 
And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of  Doorm, 
(His  gentle  charger  following  him  unled) 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he  lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall. 
And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as  be- 
fore. 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the  dead 

man, 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own  souls, 

and  her. 
They  might  as  well  have  blest  her  :  she 

was  deaf 
To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord. 
There  in  tlie  naked  hall,  proppinghishead, 
And  dialing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling 

to  him. 
And  at  the  last  he  waken'd  from  his  swoon. 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping 

his  head. 
And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling 

to  him  ; 
And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his  face ; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart,  ' '  she  weeps 

for  me  "  : 
And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign'd  himself  as 

dead. 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  uttemaost. 
And  say  to  his  own  heart  "she  weeps 

for  me." 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return'd 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to  the 

hall. 
His  lusty  spearmen  follow'd  him  with 

noise  : 
Each  hurling  down  a  heap  of  things  that 

rang 


GERAINT   AND    ENID. 


157 


Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance  aside, 
And  doll'd   his  helm  :   and   then  there 

flutter'd  in, 
Half-hold,    half-frighted,    with    dilated 

eyes, 
A  tribe  of  women,  dress'd  in  many  hues, 
And  mingled   with  the  spearmen  :  and 

Earl  Doorm 
Struck  with  a  knife's  haft  hard  against 

the  hoard, 
And  call'd  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his 

spears. 
And  men  brought   in   whole   hogs  and 

quarter  beeves. 
And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of 

tlesh  : 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down 

at  once. 
And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall. 
Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear  them 

feed  ; 
Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself. 
To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless  tril)e. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he 

would. 
He  roll'dhiseyes  about  thehall,  and  found 
A  damsel  drooping  in  a  corner  of  it. 
Then  he  remember'd  her,  and  how  she 

we]  it ; 
And  out  of  her  there  came  a  power  upon 

hinr  ; 
And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said,  "  Eat  ! 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  pale. 
God's  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see  you 

weep. 
Eat !     Look  3'ourself.     Good   luck   had 

your  good  man. 
For  were  I  dead  who  is  it  would  weep  for  me  ? 
Sweet  lady,  never  since  I  first  drew  breath. 
Have  I  beheld  a  lily  like  yourself. 
And  so  there   lived  some  color  in  your 

cheek, 
There  is  not  one  among  my  gentlewomen 
Were  fit  to  wear  your  sli]iper  for  a  glove. 
But  listen  to  me.  and  by  me  be  ruled, 
And  I  will  do  the  thing  I  have  not  done. 
For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with  me. 

And  we  will  live  like  two  birds  in  one 

nest, 
And  I  will  fetch  you  forage  from  all  fields, 
For  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will." 

He  spoke  :  the  brawny  speai'man  let 
his  cheek 
Bulge  with  the  unswallow'd  piece,  and 
turning  stared ; 


While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  serpent 

long  had  drawn 
Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the  wither'd 

leaf 
And  makes  it  eai'th,  liiss'd  each  at  other's 

ear 
What  shall  not  be  recorded — women  they, 
Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gracious 

things, 
But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their 

best. 
Yea,  would  liav(?  helped  him  tc  it :  and 

all  at  once 
They  hated  her,  who  took  no  thought  of 

them. 
But  answer'd  in  low  voice,  her  meek  head 

yet 
Drooping,  "  I  pray  you  of  your  courtesy, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  iieard  hei 
speak. 
But  like  a  mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  graciously, 
Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him,  add- 
ing, "yea. 
Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I  account  you  mine." 

She  answer'd  meekly,  "  How  should  I 
be  glad 
Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  anything, 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me  ? " 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon  hei 

talk. 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing  ;  suddenly  seized  on 

her, 
And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the 

board. 
And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying, 

"Eat." 

"No,  no,"  said  Enid,  vext,  "1  will 

not  eat. 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise, 
And  eat  with  me."     "Drink,  then,"  he 

answer'd.      "Here  ! " 
(And  fill'd  a  horn  with  wine  and  held  it 

to  her,) 
"  Lo  !  I,  myself,  when  flush'd  with  fight, 

or  hot, 
God's  curse,  with  anger  —  often  I  myself. 
Before  I  well  have  drunken,  scarce  can 

eat : 
Drink  therefore  and  the  wine  will  change 

your  will." 


L58 


GERAINT  AND   ENID. 


"Not  so,"  she  cried,  "by  Heaven,  I 
will  not  drink, 
Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do  it, 
And  drink  with  me  ;  and  if  he  rise  no  more, 
I  will  not  look  at  wine  until  I  die." 

At  this  he  turn'd  all  red  and  paced  his 
hall, 
Kow  gnaw'd  his  under,  now  his  upper  lip, 
And  coming  up  close  to  h^-v,  said  at  Last ; 
"  Girl,  for  1  see  ye  scorn  lUy  courtesies. 
Take  warning :  yonder  man  is  surely  dead ; 
And  I  compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 
Not  eat  nor  drink  ?    And  wherefore  wail 

for  one, 
Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and 

scorn 
By  dressing  it  in  rags  ?     Amazed  am  I, 
Beholding  how  ye  butt  against  my  wisli, 
That  I  forbear  you  thus  :  crossme  no  more. 
At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor  gown , 
This   silken   rag,    this    beggar-woman's 

weed  : 
I  love  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully  : 
For  see  ye  not  my  gentlewomen  here, 
How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of  one. 
Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beauti- 
fully .1 
Rise  therefore  ;  robe   yourself  in  this  : 
obey." 

He  spoke,  and  one  among  his  gentle- 
women 
Display'd  a  splendid  silk  of  foreign  loom. 
Where  like  a  shoaling  sea  the  lovely  blue 
Play'd  into  gi'een,  and  thicker  down  the 

front 
With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops 

of  dew. 
When  all  night  long  a  cloud  clings  to  the 

hill. 
And  with  the  dawn  ascendinglets  the  day 
Strike  where  it  clung  :  so  thickly  shone 
the  gems. 

But  Enid  answer'd,  harder  to  be  moved 
Thanhardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of  power. 
With    life-long   injuries   burning    una- 
venged. 
And  now  their  hour  has  come  ;  and  Enid 
said : 

"In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord  found 

me  first. 
And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father's  hall : 
In  this  poor  gown  I  rode  with  him  to 

court, 


And  there  the  Queen  array'd  me  like  the 

sun  : 
In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe  my- 
self. 
When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal  quest 
Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be  gain'd : 
And  this  poor  gown  I  will  not  cast  aside 
Until  himself  arise  a  living  man, 
And  bid  me  cast  it.   1  have  griefs  enough : 
Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be ; 
I  never  loved,  can  never  love  but  liim  : 
Yea,  God,  I  pray  you  of  your  gentleness, 
He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be." 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and  down 

his  hall. 
And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his 

teeth  ; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his 

mood 
Crying,  "I  count  it  of  no  more  avail. 
Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with  you ; 
Take  my  salute,"  unknightly  with  flat 

hand. 
However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the  cheek. 

Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness, 
And  since  she  thought,    "he  had  not 

dared  to  do  it. 
Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead, " 
Sent  forth  a  sudden  sharp  and  bitter  cry. 
As  of  a  wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 
AVhich  sees  the  traj^per  coming  thro'  the 

wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at  his 

sword, 
(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made  but  a  single  bound,  and  with  a  sweep 

of  it 
Shore  thro'  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like  a 

ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roll' don  the  floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted 

dead. 
And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hall 
Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man  rise. 

and  fled 
Yelling  as  from  a  spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said  : 

"  Enid,  I  have  used  you  worse  than 
that  dead  man  ; 

Done  you  more  wrong  :  we  both  have  un- 
dergone 

That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice 
your  own  : 


GEIIAINT   .VJSD   ENID. 


159 


■Tlieru-.M     l.i^r<l,.l„.  1,1  r.  .,  >1  u..  n.t  r.M,r 
So  d  ed  Earl  Doorni  by  liiiii  he  counted  dead  " 


Henceforward  I  will  rather  die  tli:ui  doubt. 
And  here  1  lay  this  pcniance  on  myself, 
Not,  tho'  mine  own  ears  heard  you  yes- 

ter-moru  — 
You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I  heard 

you  say, 
I  heard  yousay,  that  you  were  no  true  wife  : 
I  swear  I  will  not  ask  your  meaning  in  it : 
I  do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 
And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 

doubt." 

And  Enid  couldnot  say  one  tender  word. 
She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the  heart : 
She  only  prayed  him,    "Fly,  they  will 

return 
And  slay  you  :  fly,  your  charger  is  without, 
My  palfrey  lost."     "Then,   Enid,  shall 

you  ride 
Behind  me."      "  Yea,"  said  Enid,    "let 

us  go." 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately 

horse. 
Who  now  no  more  a  vassal  to  the  thief, 
But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful  fight, 
Neigh'd  with  all  gladness  as  they  came, 

and  stoop'd 
With  a  low  whinny  toward  the  pair  :  and 

she 
Kiss'd  the  white  star  uponhisnoble  front, 
Glad  also  ;  then  Geraint  upon  the  horse 


Mounted,  and  reach'd  a  hand,  and  on 

his  foot 
She  set  her  own  and  climb'd  ;  he  turn'd 

his  face 
And  kiss'd  her  climbing,   and  she  cast 

her  arms 
About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  av/ay. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O'er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew. 
Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind 
Than  lived  thro'  her,  who  in  that  perilous 

hour 
Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  husband's 

heart, 
And  felt  him  hers  again :  she  did  not  weep. 
But  o'er  her  meek  eyes  came  a  happy  mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden 

green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain  : 
Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue  eyes 
As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path. 
Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  hold, 
A  knight  of  Arthur's  court,  who  laid  his 

lance 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon  him. 
Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  lossof  blood. 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had 

chanced, 
Shriek'd  to  the  stranger,    "Slay   not  a 

dead  man  ! " 


160 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


"The    voice  of  Enid,"  said  the  knight  ; 

but  -she, 
Beholding  it  was  Edyni,  son  of  Nudd, 
Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and  shriek'd 

again, 
"0  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you 

life." 
And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward  spake : 
"My  lord  Geraint,  I  greet  you  with  all 

love  ; 
I  took  you  for  a  bandit  knight  of  Doorm  ; 
Andfearnot,  Enid,  I  should  fall  upon  him, 
Who  love  you.  Prince,  with  something 

of  the  love 
Wherewith  we   love  the   Heaven   that 

chastens  us. 
For  once,  when  I  was  up  so  high  in  pride 
That  I  was  halfway  down  the  slope  to 

Hell, 
By  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me  higher. 
Now,  made  a  knight  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round, 
And  since  I  knew  this  Earl,  when  I  my- 
self 
Was  half  a  bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 
i  come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to 

Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  biddinghim 
Disband   himself,    and    scatter    all  his 

powers, 
Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the 

King." 

"  He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King 

of  Kings," 
Cried   the   wan    Prince;    "and   lo   the 

powers  of  Doo.m 
Are  scatter'd,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  field, 
W^here,  huddled  here  and  there  on  mound 

and  knoll. 
Were  men  and  women  staring  and  aghast. 
While  some  yet  fled  ;  and  then  he  plain- 

lier  told 
How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his 

hall. 
But   when  the    knight   besought   him, 

"  Follow  me. 
Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King's 

own  ear 
Speak  what  has  chanced  ;  ye  surely  have 

endured 
Strange  chances  here  alone  "  ;  that  other 

flush' d, 
And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in  reply. 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless 

King, 
And  after  madness  acted  question  asK  d  : 


Till  Edyrn  crying,  "  If  ye  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  toyou," 
"Enough,"  he  said,  "  J  follow,'  aud  they 

went. 
But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears. 
One  from  the  bandit  scatter'd  in  the  field, 
And  one  from  Edyrn.     Every  now  and 

then. 
When  Edyrn rein'dhischargerather  .side, 
She  shrank  a  little.     In  a  hollow  land. 
From  which  old  tires  have  broken,  men 

maj^  fear 
Fresh  fire  and  ruin.     He,  perceiving,  said  ; 

"Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most 

had  cause 
To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  1  am  changed. 
Yourself  wei'e  first  the  blameless  cause  to 

make 
My  nature's  prideful  sparkle  in  the  blood 
Break  into  furious  flame  ;  being  repulsed 
By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I  schemed  and 

wrought 
Until  I  overturn'd  him  ;  then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my  heart) 
My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a  paramour: 
Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair, 
And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism. 
So  wax'd  in  pride,  that  1  believed  myself . 
Unconquerable,  for  I  was  wellnigh  mad  : 
And,  liut  for  my  main  purpose  in  these 

jousts, 
I  should  liave  slain  your  father,  seized 

yourself. 
I  lived  in  hope  that  sometime  you  would 

come 
To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best 

you  loved  ; 
And  there,  poor  cou.sin,  with  your  meek 

blue  eyes, 
The  truest  eyes  that  everanswer'dheaven, 
Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on  him. 
Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray'd 

to  me, 
I  should  not  less  have  kill'd  him.     And 

you  came,  — 
But  once  you  came,  —  and  with  your  own 

true  ej'es 
Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as  one 
Speaks  of  a  service  done  liiin)  overthrow 
My  proud  self,  and   my   purpose  three 

years  old, 
And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me  life. 
There  was  I  broken  down  ;  there  was  I 

saved  : 
Tho'  thence  I  rode  all-shamed,  hating  tho 

life 


GERAINT   AND   ENID. 


161 


He  gave  nie,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 
And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid  upon 

me 
Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her  court ; 
Where  first  as  sullen  as  a  beast  new-caged, 
And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a  wolf, 
Because  I  knew  my  deeds  were  known,  I 

found, 
Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn. 
Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence, 
Mannersso  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a  grace 
Of  tendert'st  courtesy,  that  I  began 
To  glance  liehiud  nie  at  my  former  life, 
And  iind  that  it  had  been  the  wolfs  indeed: 
And  oft  I  talk'd  with  Dubric,  the  high 

saint. 
Who,  with  mild  heat  of  lioly  oratory, 
Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentleness, 
Which,  when  it   weds   with   manhood, 

makes  a  man. 
And  you  were  often  there  about  the  Queen, 
But  saw  me  not,  or  murk'd  not  if  you  saw ; 
Xor  did  I  care  or  dare  to  speak  with  you, 
Butkept  myself  aloof  till  1  was  changed  ; 
And   fear  not,  cousin  ;    1  am   changed 

indeed." 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed. 
Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend  or  foe. 
There  most  in  those  who  most  have  done 

them  ill. 
And  when   they  reocli'd  the  cainp  the 

King  himself 
A-dvauced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding 

her 
Tho'  pale,  yet  happy,  ask'dhernotaword, 
Butwent  apart  with  Edyrn,  whomhe  held 
In  converse  for  a  little,  and  retura'd, 
And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted   her   from 

horse, 
And  kiss'd  her  with  all  pureness,  brother- 
like. 
And  show'd  an  empty  tent  allotted  her. 
And  glancing  for  a  minute,  till  he  saw  her 
Pass  into  it,  turn'dto  the  Prince,  and  said  : 

"  Prince,  when  of  late  ye  pray'd  me 

for  my  leave 
To  move  to  your  own  land,  and  there 

defend 
Your  marches,  I  was  prick' d  with  some 

reproof, 
Asonethat  let  foul  wrong  stagnate  and  be, 
By  having  look'd  too  much  thro'  alien  eyes. 
And  wrought  too   long  with   delegated 

hands. 


Not   used   mine  own :  but  now  behold 

me  come  ^ 

To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  my 

realm. 
With  Edyrn  and  with  others  :  have  ye 

.     look'd 
At   Edyrn  ?    have   ye  seen   how   nobly 

changed  ? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonderful. 
His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is 

changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a  man  repents  : 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly 

right. 
Full  seldom  docs  a  man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious 

quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him, 
And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself 

alVesh. 
Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  I  will  weed  this  land  before  I  go. 
I,  therefore,  made  him  ofour  Table  Round, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  everyway 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous. 
Sanest  and  most  obedient  :  and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon  himself 
After  a  lif(;  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A  thousand-fold  more  great  and  wonderful 
Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking  his 

life, 
My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him, 
Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a 

realm 
Of  robbers,  tho'  he  slew  them  one  by  one, 
And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to  the 

death." 

So   spake  the  King ;  low  bow'd  the 

Prince,  and  felt 
His  work   was  neither  great  nor  won- 
derful, 
And  past  to  Enid's  tent  ;    and  thither 

came 
The  King's  own  leech  to  look  into  hit. 

hurt ; 
And  Enid  tended   on  him  there  ;   and 

there 
Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and  the 

breath 
Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over  him, 
Fill'd  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love, 
As   the   south-west   that  blowing  Bala 

lake 
Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.     So  past  the 

days. 


162 


MERLIN   AJSID    VmEN. 


But  while  Geraint  lay  liealiiig  of  his  I 
hurt,       ^ 

The  blameless  King  went  forth  and  cast 
his  eyes 

On  each  of  all  whom  Uther  left  in  charge 

Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the 
King  : 

He  look'dand  found  them  wanting  ;  and 
as  now 

Men  weed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berk- 
shire hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  hereto- 
fore, 

He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 

Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink'd  at 
wrong, 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a  stronger  race 

With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a  thou- 
sand men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  movingeverywhere 

Clear'd  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the 
law, 

And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and  cleansed 
the  land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again, 
they  past 
With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 
There  the  great  Queen  once  more  em- 
braced her  friend, 
And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 
And  tho'  Geraint  could  never  take  agahi 
That  comfort  from  their  conversL'  which 

he  took 
Before  the  Queen's  fair  name  was  breathed 

upon, 
He  rested  Avell  content  that  all  was  well. 
Thenceaftertarryingforaspace  they  rode. 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the 

shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land. 
And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the  King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  andthesjutcful  whisper  died  : 
And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase, 
And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament. 
They  call'd  liim  the  great  Prince  and  man 

of  men. 
But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 
Enid  the  Eair,  a  grateful  |)eople  named 
Enid  the  Good  ;  and  in  their  halls  arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Euids  and  Geraints 
Of  times  to  be  ;  nor  did  he  doubt  her  more 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown'd 
A  happy  life  with  a  fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
Inbattle,  fighting  for  the  blameless  King. 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 

A  STOKM   was  coming,  but   the   winds 

were  still, 
And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  and  old 
It  look'd  a  tower  of  ruiu'd  masonwork, 
At  Merlin's  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthui'i; 

court  : 
She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  in 

thought 
Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name 

was  named. 
For  once,  when  Arthurwalking  all  alone, 
Vext  at  a  rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 
Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted  fair. 
Would  fain  have  M'roughtupon  his  cloudy 

mood 
With  reverent  ej'es  mock -loyal,  shaken 

voice, 
And  flutter'd  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who  prized 

him  more 
Than  who  should    prize   him  most  ;  at 

which  the  King 
Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone 

by: 
But  one  had  watch'd,  and  had  not  held 

his  pence  : 
It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blame- 
less lung. 
xVnd  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gain 
Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those 

times. 
Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their 

arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships, 

and  halls. 
Was   also    Bard,  and   knew  the   starry 

heavens  ; 
The  people  call'd  him  Wizard  •,   whom 

at  first 
She  play'd  about  wth  slight  and  spright- 
ly talk. 
And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom'd 

points 
Of  slander,  glancing  here    and  grazing 

there  ; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the 

Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and 

play, 
Ev'u  when  they  seem'd  unlovable,  and 

laugh 


MERLIN    AND   VIVIEN. 


163 


As  those  that  watch  a  kitten  ;  thus  he 

grew 
Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain'd,  and 

she, 
Perceivingthatshe  was  but  half  disdain'd, 
Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver  fits, 
Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when  they 

met 
Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
With  such  a  fixt  devotion,  that  the  old 

man, 
Tho'  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at 

times 
Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for  love, 
And  half  believe  her  true :  for  thus  at 

times 
He  waver'd  ;  but  that  otherclung  to  him, 
Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 
Then  fell  upon  him  a  great  melancholy  ; 
And  leaving  Arthur's  court  hcgain'd  the 

beach  ; 
There  found  a  little  boat,  and  stept  into 

it  ; 
And  Vivien  follow'd,  but  he  mark'd  her 

not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ;  the 

boat 
Drave  with  a  sudden  wind   across   the 

deeps. 
And  touching  Breton  sands,  they  disem- 

bark'd. 
And  then  she  follow'd  Merlin  all  the  way, 
Ev'n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 
For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a  charm, 
The  which  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With  woven  paces  and  with  waving  arms, 
The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem'd  to  lie 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower. 
From  which  was  no  escape  for  everniore  ; 
And  none  could  find  that  man  for  ever- 
more, 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought 

the  charm 
Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 
And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  the  charm 
Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 
As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  be  great 
According   to  his   greatness  whom    she 

quench'd. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss'd 
his  feet. 
As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 
A  twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair ;  a  robe 
Of  samite  without  price,  that  moreexprest 


Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome 

limbs. 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March: 
And    while    she    kiss'd    them,    crying, 

"  Trample  me, 
Dear  feet,  that  1  have  follow'd  thro'  the 

world, 
And  I  will  pay  you  worship  ;  tread  me 

down 
And  I  will  kiss  you  for  it "  ;  he  was  mute : 
So  dark  a  forethought  roll'd  about  his 

brain. 
As  on  a  dull  chiy  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  wave  feeling  round  his  long 

sea-hall 
In  silence  :  wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 
A  face  of  sad  a]ipeal,  and  spake  and  said, 
"  0  ^lerlin,  do  ye  love  me  ?"  and  again, 
"O  Merlin,  do  ye  love  me?"  and  once 

more, 
"  Great  Master,  do  ye  love  me  ?"  he  was 

mute. 
And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel, 
Wiithed  toward  him,  slided  up  his  knee 

and  sat, 
Rehiiul  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow  feet 
Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his  neck, 
Clung  like  a  snake  ;  and  letting  her  left 

hand 
Droop  fi  om  his  mighty  shoulder,  as  aleaf, 
Made  with  her  right  a  comb  of  pearl  to 

part 
The  lists  of  such  a  beard  as  youth  gone  out 
Had  left  in  ashes  :  thenhe  spoke  andsaid, 
Not  looking ather,  "  who  are  wisein  love 
Love  most,  say  least,"  and  Vivien  an- 
swer'd  quick, 
"  I  saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur's  arras  hall  at  Camelot : 
But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue  —  0  stupid 

child  ! 
Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it ;  let  me  think 
Silence  is  wisdom  :  I  am  silent  then 
And  ask  no  kiss  "  ;  then  adding  all  at 

once, 
"And  lo,  I  clothe  myself  with  wisdom," 

drew 
The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 
Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee. 
And  call'd  herself  a  gilded  summer  fly 
Caught  in  a  great  old  tyrant  spider's  web, 
Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild  wood 
Without   one    word.     So  Vivien   call'd 

herself, 
But  rather  seem'd  a  lovely  baleful  star 
Veil'd  in  gray  vapor  ;  tiU  he  sadly  smiled  ; 


164 


MERLIN    AND   VIVIElxi- 


"  Drew 
The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 
Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee." 


"To  what  request  for  what  strange  boon," 
he  said, 

"  Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fool- 
eries, 

0  Vivien,  the  preamble  ?  yet  my  thanks, 
For  these  have    broken  up   my  melan- 
choly." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily, 
"  "What,   0  my  Master,  have  ye  found 
your  voice  ? 

1  bid  the  stranger  welcome.     Tlianks  at 

last  ! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open'd  lip. 
Except  indeed  to  driiik  :  no  cup  liad  we  : 
In  mine  own  lady  palms  I  cuU'd  the  spring 


That  gather'd  trickling   dropwise   from 

the  cleft. 
And  made  a  pretty  cup  of  both  my  hands 
And    offer'd   you  it  kneeling  :  then  ye 

drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave   me  one 

poor  word  ; 
0  no  more   thanks   than  might  a  goat 

have  given 
With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a 

beard. 
And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well. 
And  I  was  faint   to  swooning,  and   ye 

lay 
Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of 

those 


MERLIN    AND   VIVIEN. 


165 


Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  did  you 

know 
That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before  her 

own? 
And  yet  no  thanks  :  and  all  thro'  this 

wild  wood 
And  all  this  morning  when  I    fondled 

you  : 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a  boon,  one  not  so 

strange  — 
How  had  I  wrong'd  you  ?  surely  you  are 

wise, 
But  such  a  silence  is  more  wise  than  kind." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  his  hand  in  hers 

and  said  ; 
"  0  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore. 
And  watch  the  curl'd  white  of  the  coming 

wave 
Glass'd   in  the   slippery  sand  before   it 

breaks  ? 
Ev'n  such  a  wave,  but  not  so  pleasurable. 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful  mood. 
Had  I  for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  fall. 
And  then  I  rose  and  fled  from  Arthur's 

court 
To  break  the  mood.     You  follow'd  me 

uuask'd  ; 
And  when  Ilook'd,  and  saw  you  following 

still, 
My  minel  involved  yourself  the  nearest 

thing 
In  that  mind-mist :  for  shall  I  tell  you 

truth  ? 
Vou   seem'd  that  wave  about  to  break 

upon  me 
And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the 

world, 
My  use  and  name  and  fame.     Your  par- 
don, child. 
Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten'd  all 

again. 
And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I  owe  you 

thrice, 
Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion, 

next 
For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected,  last 
For  these  your  dainty  gambols  :  where- 
fore ask  ; 
And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not  so 

strange." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  mourn- 

fully  ; 
"0  not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it, 
Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are 

strange, 


Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood  of 

yours. 
I  ever  fear'd  ye  were  not  wholly  mine  ; 
And  see,  yourself  have  own'd  ye  did  me 

wrong. 
The  people  call  you  prophet :  let  it  be  : 
But  not  of  those  that  can  expound  them- 
selves. 
Take  Vivien  for  expounder  :  she  will  call 
That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom  of 

yours 
No  jDresage,  but  the  same  mistrustful  mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than 

yourself. 
Whenever  1  have  ask'd  this  very  boon. 
Now  ask'd  again  :   for  see  you  not,  dear 

love, 
That  such  a  mood  as  that,  which  lately 

gloom'd 
Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  following 

you. 
Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are  not 

mine. 
Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove 

you  mine. 
And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn 

this  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands. 
As  proof  of  trust.   0  Merlin,  teach  it  me. 
The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us  both 

to  rest. 
For,  giant  me  some  slight  power  upon 

your  fate, 
I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust, 
Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing 

you  mine. 
And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are  named. 
Not  muffled  round  with  seliish  reticence. 
How  hard  you  look  and  how  denyingly  ! 
0,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me, 
Tliat  I  should  prove  it  on  you  unawares. 
To  make  yo '  lose  your  use  and  name  and 

fame. 
That  makes  me  most  indignant ;   then 

our  bond 
Had  best  be  loosed  for  ever  :  but  thin): 

or  not, 
By  Heaven  that  hears  I  tell  you  the  clean 

truth, 
As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as 

milk  : 
0  Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 
If  these  unwit  ty  wandering  wits  of  mine, 
Ev'n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a  dream, 
H  ave  tript  on  such  conj  ectural  treacher j' — 
May  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the  Nadir 

hell 


166 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip 

me  flat, 
Tf  I  be  such  a  traitress.     Yield  my  boon. 
Till  which  I  scarce  can  yield  you  all  I  am ; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish. 
The  great  proof  of  your  love  :  because  I 

think, 
However  wise,  ye  hardly  know  me  yet." 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from  hers 

and  said, 
"  I  never  was  less  wise,  however  wise. 
Too  curious  Vivien,  tho'  you  talk  of  trust. 
Than  when  I  told  you  first  of  such  a  charm. 
Yea,  if  ye  talk  of  trust  1  tell  you  this, 
Too  much  I  trusted,  when  I  told  you  that, 
And  stirr'd  this  vice  in  you  which  ruin'd 

man 
Thro'  woman  the  first  hour  ;  for  howsoe'er 
In  children  a  great  curiou.sness  be  well, 
Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all  the 

world, 
In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I  find 
Your  face  is  practised,  when  I  spell  the 

lines, 
I  call  it,  —  well,  I  will  not  call  it  vice  : 
But  since  you  name  yourself  the  summer 

fly, 

I  well  could  wish  a  cobweb  for  the  gnat. 
That  settles,   beaten  back,   and  beaten 

back 
Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weariness  : 
But  since  I  will  not  yield  to  give  you  power 
Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame, 
Why  will  you  never  ask  some  other  boon  ? 
Yea,  by  God's  rood,  I  trusted  you  too 

much." 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted 

maid 
That  ever  bided  tryst  at  callage  stile. 
Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with  tears. 
"  Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathful  with  your 

maid  ; 
Caress  her  :  let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 
Ithink  youhardlyknow  the  tender  rhyme 
Of  '  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 
I  heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it 

once, 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.     Listen  to  it. 

'  In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be 

ours. 
Faith    and  unfaith  can    ne'er  be   equal 

powers  : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 


'  It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute. 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

'  The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all, 

'  It  is  riot  worth  the  keeping :  let  it  go ; 
But  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

0  master,  do  ye  love  my  tender  rhyme  ?' 

And  Merlin  look'd  and  half  believed 

her  true. 
So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her  face, 
So  sweetly  gleam'd  her  eyes  behind  her 

tears 
Like   sunlight  on   the   plain  behind  a 

shower  : 
And  yet  he  answer'd  half  indignantly. 

' '  Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I 

heard 
By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where  we 

sit  : 
For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve  of  us, 
To  chase  a  creature  that  was  current  then 
In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with  golden 

horns. 
It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question  rose 
About  the  founding  of  a  Table  Bound, 
Tliat  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and  men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the 

world. 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 
And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest 

of  us, 
We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he 

flash'd, 
And  into  such  a  song,  such  fire  for  fame. 
Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  comingdown 
To  such  a  stern  and  iron-clashing  close, 
That  when  he  stopt  we  long'd  to  hurl 

together, 
And  should  have  done  it ;  but  the  beau- 
teous beast 
Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our  feet, 
And  like  a  silver  .shadow  slipt  away 
Thro'  the  dim  land  ;  and  all  daylong  we 

rode 
Thro'  the    dim   land  against  a   rushing 

wind. 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our  ears. 
And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  goldenhorna 
Until  they  vanish'd  by  the  fairy  well 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


167 


That  laughs  at  iron  —  asour  warriors  did — 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  and  nails, 

and  cry, 
'Laugh,  little  well,'  but  touch  it  with  a 

sword, 
It  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point ;  and 

there 
We  lost  liim  :  such  a  noble  song  was  that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me  that  sweet 

rhyme, 
I  felt  as  tho'  you  knew  this  cursed  charm. 
Were  proving  it  on  me,  and  that  I  lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and 

fame." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  mourn- 

fully  ; 
"0  mine  have  ebb'd  away  for  evermore. 
And  all  thro'  following  you  to  this  wild 

wood, 
Because  I  saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 
Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  I    they 

never  mount 
As  high  as  Avoman  in  her  selfless  mood. 
And   touching  fame,   howe'er  ye   scorn 

my  song, 
Take  one  verse  more  —  the  lady  sjieaks 

it  —  this  : 

'  My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is 

closelier  mine. 
For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame 

were  thine, 
And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that 

shame  were  mine. 
So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.' 

"  Says  she  not  well  ?  and  there  is  more 

—  this  rhyme 
Is  like  the  fair  pearl-necklace  of  the  Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls  were 

spilt ; 
Some  lost,  some  stolen ,  some  as  relics  kept. 
But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister  pearls 
Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each 

other 
On  her  white  neck  —  so  is  it  with  this 

rhyme  : 
It  lives  dispensedly  in  many  hands. 
And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differently  ; 
Yet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  jiearl  of 

yiearls  ; 
'  Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman  wakes 

to  love.' 
True  :  Love,  tho'  Love  were  of  the  gross- 
est, carves 
A  portion  from  the  solid  pr&sent,  eats 


Am3  uses,  careless  of  the  rest  ;  but  Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  '.s  :.iothing 

to  us  ; 
And  what  is  Fame  in  life  buth  ,lf-disfame, 
And  counterchanged  with  darknecs  ?  you 

yourself 
Know  Avell  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil's 

son. 
And  since  you  seem  the  Ll  aster  of  all 

Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  lilaster  of  all 

Vice." 

And  Merlin  lock'd  liishand  in  hers  and 

snid, 
"  I  once  was  looking  for  a  magic  weed, 
And  found  a  fair  young  squire  who  sat 

alone, 
Had  carved  himself  a  knightly  shield  of 

wood, 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied  arms, 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising  or,  the  Sun 
1  nde.xter  chief ;  the  scroll '  I  follow  fame.' 
And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over  him, 
I  took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the  bird, 
And  made  a  Gardener  putting  in  a  gratf. 
With  this  for  motto,  '  Rather  use  ihan 

fame.' 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush  ;  but 

afterwards 
He  made  a  stalwart  knight.     0  Vivien, 
For  you,  methiiiks  you  think  you  love 

me  well  ; 
For  me,  1  love  you  somewhat ;  I'cst  :  and 

Love 
Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in 

himself. 
Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a  boon. 
Too  prurient  for  a  proof  against  the  grain 
Of  him  you  say  you  love  :  but  Fame  with 

men, 
Beingbut  ampler  means  to  serve  mankind, 
Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in  her- 
self, 
But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love, 
That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one. 
Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame 

again 
Increasing  gave  me  use.     Lo,  there  my 

boon  ! 
What  other  ?   for  men  sought  to  prove 

me  vile. 
Because  I  wish'd  to  give  them  greater 

minds  : 
And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil's  son  : 
The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help  her- 
self 


168 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


By  striking  at  her  better,  miss'd,  and 

brought 
Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her 

own  heart. 
Sweet  were  the  days  when  I  was  all  un- 
known, 
But  wlien  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the 

stoi'm 
Broke  on  the  mountain  and  1  cared  not 

for  it. 
Right  well   know  I  that  Fame  is  half- 

disfame, 
Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.     That 

other  fame. 
To  one  at  least,  who  hath  not  children, 

vague. 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the  grave, 
I  cared  not  for  it  :  a  single  misty  star. 
Which  is  the  second  in  a  line  of  stars 
That  seem  a  sword  beneath  a  belt  of  three, 
1  never  gazed  upon  it  but  1  dreamt 
Of  some  vastcharm  concluded  in  that  star 
To  make  fame  nothing.    Wherefore,  if  1 

fear. 
Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro'  this 

charm, 
That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having 

power. 
However  well  you  think  you  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pu]iilage 
Have  turn'd  to  tyrants  when  they  came 

to  power) 
1  rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than  fame  ; 
If  you  —  and  not  so  much  from  wicked- 
ness. 
As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a  mood 
Of  overstrain'd  affection,  it  may  be, 
To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 
A  sudden  spurt  of  woman's  jealousy,  — 
Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  you  say 

you  love." 

And  Vivien   answer'd   smiling  as   in 

w-rath. 
*'  Have  I  not  sworn  ?    I  am  not  trusted. 

Good! 
Well,  hide  it,  hide  it  ;  I  shall  find  it  out ; 
And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 
A  woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger  born 
Of  your  misfaith  ;  and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of  mine 
Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit 

well 
Your  term  of  overstrain'd.    So  used  as  I, 
My  daily  wondei  is,  1  love  at  all. 
And  as  to  woman's  jealousy,  0  why  not  ? 


0  to  what  end,  except  a  jealous  ong, 
And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  1  love, 
Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  yourself" 

1  well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
Ye  cage  a  buxom  captive  here  and  there, 
Closed  in  tlie  four  walls  of  a  hollow  tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  for  evermore." 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  an- 
swer'd her. 

"  Full  many  a  love  in  loving  youth  was 
mine, 

1  needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them 
mine 

But  youth  ond  love  ;  and  that  full  heart 
of  yours 

Whereof  yon  i;)rattle,  may  now  assure  you 
mine  ; 

So  live  un  charm'd.  For  those  who  wrought 
it  first. 

The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that 
waved, 

The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle- 
bones 

Who  paced  it,  ages  back  :  but  will  ye 
hear 

The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your  rhyme  ? 

"  There  lived  a  king  in  the  most  East- 
ern East, 

Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 

Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  spiings  to  be. 

A  taw'ny  pirate  anchor'd  in  his  port, 

Whose  bark  had  plunder'd  twenty  name- 
less isles  ; 

And  passingone,  atthehigh  jteep  of  dawn, 

He  saw  two  cities  in  a  thou.sand  boats 

All  fighting  for  a  woman  on  the  sea. 

And  pushing  his  black  ci'aft  among  them 
all, 

He  lightly  scatter'd  theirs  and  brought 
her  off, 

With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain  ; 

A  maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderful, 

They  said  a  light  came  from  her  when 
she  moved  : 

And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield  her 
up, 

The  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy  ; 

Then  made  her  Queen  :  but  those  isle- 
nurtur'd  eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho"  successful  war 

On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken'd  ;  coun- 
cils thinn'd, 

And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she 
drew 

The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters'  hearts  ; 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


169 


And  beasts  themselves  would  worship  ; 

camels  knelt 
Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain 

back 
That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow'd  black 

knees 
Of  homage,   ringing  with  their  serpent 

hands, 
To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle- 
bells. 
Wliat  wonder,  being  jealous,  that  he  sent 
His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro'  all 
The  hundred   under-kingdoms   that  he 

sway'd 
To  Und  a  wizard  who  might  teach  the 

King 
Some  charm,  which  being  wrought  upon 

the  Queen 
Might  keep  her  all  his  own  :  to  such  a  one 
He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has 

given, 
A  league  of  mountain  full  of  golden  mines, 
Aprovince  with  a  hundred  miles  of  coast, 
A  palace  and  a  princess,  all  for  him  : 
But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail'd,  the 

King 
Pronounced  a  dismal  sentence,  meaning 

by  it 
To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders  back. 
Or  like  a  king,  not  to  be  trilled  with  — 
Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the  city 

gates. 
And  many  tried  and  fail'd,  because  the 

charm 
Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 
And  many  a  wizard   brow  bleach'd  on 

the  walls  : 
And  many  weeks  a  troop  of  carrion  crows 
Hung  like  a  cloud  above  the  gateway 

towers." 

And  Vivien  breakingin  upon  him,  said  : 
"  I  sit  and  gather  honey  ;  yet,  methinks, 
Your  tongue  has  tript  a  little  :  ask  your- 
self. 
The  lady  never  made  umvilling  war 
With  those  fine  eyes  :  she  had  her  pleas- 
ure in  it, 
And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with 

good  cause. 
And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  dam- 
sel then 
Wroth  at  a  lover's  loss  ?  were  all  as  tame, 
I  mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was  fair  ? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a  venom  at  her  eyes. 
Or  pinch  a  murderous  dust  into  her  drink. 
Or  make  her  paler  with  a  poison' d  rose  ? 


Well,  those  were  not  our  days  :  but  did 

they  find 
A  wizard  I  Tell  me,  was  he  like  to  thee  ?" 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm 

round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let 

her  eyes 
Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a 

bride's 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of  men. 

He  answer'd  laughing,  "Nay,  not  like 

to  me.   , 
At  last   they  found  —  his  foragers   for 

charms  — 
A  little  glassy-headed  hairless  man, 
Who  lived  alone  in  a  great  wild  on  grass  ; 
Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading  grew 
So  grated   down   and   filed  away   with 

thought, 
So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous  ;  while 

the  skin 
Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and 

S2)ine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole 

aim. 
Nor  ever  touch'd  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted 

flesh, 
Nor  own'd  a  sensual  wish,  to  him  the  wall 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-casting 

men 
Became  a  crystal,  andhe  saw  them  thro' it, 
And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  the 

wall, 
And  leanit  their  elemental  secrets,  powers 
And  forces ;  often  o'er  the  sun's  bright  eye 
Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud. 
And  lash'd  it  at  the  base  with  slanting 

storm  ; 
Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving  rain, 
When  the  lake  whiten'd  and  the  pine- 
wood  roar'd. 
And  the  cairn'd  mountain  was  a  shadow^ 

sunn'd 
The  world  to  peace  again  :  here  was  the 

man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg'd  him  to  the 

King. 
And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm 

the  Queen 
In  such-wise,  that  no  man  could  see  her 

more, 
Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who  wrought 

the  charm. 
Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as  dead, 
And  lost  all  use  of  life ;  but  when  the  King 


170 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN". 


*'  She  ceased,  and  made  her  Uthe  arm  round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes 
Speak  for  her." 


MadeproflFer  of  the  league  of  golden  mines, 
The  province  with  a  hundred  miles  of 

coast, 
The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old  man 
Went  back  to  his  old  wild,  and  lived  on 

grass, 
And  vanish'd,  and  his  book  came  down 

to  me." 

And  Vivien  answer'd  smiling  saucily  ; 
"You   have   the   book  :    the   charm    is 

written  in  it  : 
Good  :  take  my  counsel :  let  me  know 

it  at  once  : 
For  keep  it  like  a  puzzle  chest  in  chest. 
With  each  chest   lock'd  and  padloek'd 

thirty-fold. 
And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a 

mound 
As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy  deep, 
I  yet  should  strike  upon  a  sudden  means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the  charm : 
Than,  if  1  tried  it,  who  should  blame  me 

then  ? " 


And  smiling  as  a  Master  smiles  at  ont 
That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any  school 
But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  bra wlingjudgments, unashamed. 
On  all  things  all  day  long  ;  he  answer'd 
her. 

"  Fozi  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Vivien ! 
0  ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 
But  every  page  having  an  ample  marge. 
And  every  marge  enclosing  in  the  midst 
A  square  of  text  that  looks  a  little  blot^ 
Tlie  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of  fleas  \ 
.And  every  square  of  text  an  awful  charm, 
Writ  in  a  language  that  has  long  gone  by. 
So  long,  tliat  mountains  have  arisen  since 
With  cities  on  their  flanks  —  yoik  read 

the  book  ! 
And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost,  and 

cramm'd 
With    comment,  densest   condensation, 

hard 
To  mind  and  eye  ;  but  the  long  sleepless 

nights 
Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to  ma 


MERLIN  AND  VIVIEN. 


171 


And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  I  ; 
And  none   can  read   the  comment  but 

myself ; 
And  iuthe  comment  did  I  find  the  charm. 
0,  the  results  are  simple  ;  a  mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one, 
And  never  could  undo  it  :  ask  no  more  : 
Fortho'  you  should  not  prove  it  upon  me. 
But  keep  thatoathyou  swore,  you  might, 

perchance, 
Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  TalJe  Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble 

of  you." 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger, 

said  : 
*'  What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me  ? 
Tkey    ride    abroad     redressing    human 

wrongs  ! 
They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine  in 

horn. 
They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity  I 
Were  1  not  woman,  I  could  tell  a  tale. 
Butyouareman,  you  well  can  understand 
The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain'd  fur 

shame. 
Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch  me : 

swine  ! " 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  careless  of  her 

words. 
*'  Ye  breathe   but  accusation    vast  and 

vague, 
Spleen-born,  I  think,  and  proofless.     If 

ye  know. 
Set  up  the  charge  ye  know,  to  stand  or 

fall ! " 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  wrath- 

fully. 
"  0  ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o'er  his 

wife 
And  two  fair  babes,  and  went  to  distant 

lands  ; 
Wasoneyeargone,  and  on  returning  found 
Not  two  but  three  :  there  lay  the  reck- 
ling, one 
But  one  hour  old  !     What  said  the  happy 

sire  ? 
A  seven  months'  babe  had  been  a  truei 

gift. 
Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused  his 

fatherhood." 

Then  answer'd  Merlin  "  Nay,  I  know 
the  tale. 


Sir  Valence   wedded   with  an  outland 

dame  : 
Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder'd  from 

his  wife  : 
One  child  tliey  had  :  it  lived  with  her : 

she  died  ; 
His  kinsman  travelling  on  Ids  own  affair 
Was  charged  Itv  Valence  to  bring  home 

the  child. 
He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore  :  take 

the  truth." 

"  0  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "overtrue  a  tale. 
What  .-ay  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagramore 
That  ardent  man  ?  '  to  pluck  the  flower 

in  season '  ; 
So  says  the  song,  '  I  trow  it  is  no  treason. ' 

0  Waster,  shall  we  call  liim  oven^uick 
To  crop  his   own  sweet  rose  before  the 

hour  '(.  " 

And  Merlin  answei''d  "  Overquick  are 

you 
To  catch  a  lothly  plume  fall'n  from  the 

wing 
Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole  prey 
Is  man's  good  name  :  he  never  wrong'd 

his  bride. 

1  know  the  tale.     An  angry  gust  of  wind 
Pulf'd  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad- 
room' d 

And  many-corridor'd  complexities 

Of  Arthur's  palace  :  then  he  found  a  door 

And  darkling  felt  the  sculjitured  orna- 
ment 

That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem  his 
own  ; 

And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch  and 
slept, 

A  stainless  man  beside  a  stainless  maid  ; 

And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other  there ; 

Till  the  high  dawn  jnercing  the  royal  rose 

In  Arthur's  casement  glimmer'd  chastely 
down, 

Blushingupon  them  blushing,  andatonce 

He  rose  without  a  word  and  parted  from 
her  : 

But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about  the 
court, 

The  brute  world  howling  forced  them  in- 
to bonds. 

And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being 
pure." 

''  0  ay,"  said  Vivien,  "  that  were  likely 

too. 
What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 


172 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


And   of    the    horrid    foulness  that   he 

Avrought, 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of 

Christ, 
Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan's  fold. 
What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel-yard, 
Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  thegi'aves, 
And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the  dead  !  " 

And  Merlin  answer'd  careless  of  her 
charge, 

''  A  sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure  ; 

Bat  once  in  life  was  fluster'd  with  new 
wine. 

Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel- 
yard  ; 

Where  one  of  Satan's  shepherdesses  caught 

And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her  mas- 
ter's mark  ; 

And  that  he  sinn'd,  is  not  believable  ; 

For,  look  uponhisface  !  —  but  if  he  sinn'd. 

The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood, 

And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings 
remorse, 

Will  brand  uc,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be  : 

Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose 
hjonns 

Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than 
all. 

But  is  your  spleen  froth'd  out,  or  have 
ye  more  ? " 

And  Vivien  answer'd  frowning  yet  in 

wrath  ; 
"Gay ;  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot,  friend? 
Traitor  or  trae  ?  that  commert'e  with  the 

Queen, 
I  ask  you,  is  it  clamor'd  by  the  child. 
Or  whisper'd  in  the  corner  ?  do  you  know 

it?" 

To  which  he  answer'd  sadly,  "Yea,  I 

know  it. 
Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first. 
To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the 

King  ; 
So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  :  let  him  be. 
But  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal  praise 
For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stainless 

man  ? 

She  answer'd  with  a  low  and  chuckling 

laugh  ; 
"  Him  ?  is  he  man  at  all,  who  knows  and 

winks  ? 
Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does,  and 

winks  ? 


By  which  the  good  king  means  to  blind 
himself, 

And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table 
Eound 

To  all  the  foulness  that  they  Avork .    Myself 

Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  woman- 
hood) 

The  pretty,  popular  name  such  manhood 
earns. 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all  tlieii 
crime  ; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown'd  king,  coward, 
and  fool." 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loath- 
ing, said  ; 
"0  true  and  tender  !  0  my  liege  and  king! 

0  selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman. 
Who   wouldst   against  thine   own   eye- 
witness fain 

HaveallnientnieandlealjallAvomen^iure; 
How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpreters, 
From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 
To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and  foul 
As  the  poach'd  filth  that  floods  the  middle 

street, 
Is   thy   white   blamelessness  accounted 

blame!" 

But  Vivien  deeming  Merlin  overborne 
By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her 

tongue 
Rage  like  a  fire  among  the  noblest  names, 
Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole  self, 
Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad 

clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she 

will'd. 
He   dragg'd  his  eyebrow  bushes   down, 

and  made 
A  snow}'  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eyes. 
And  mutter'd  in  himself,  "tell  her  the 

charm  ! 
So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 
To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it  not. 
So  will  she  rail.    What  did  the  wanton  say  ? 
'  Not  mount  as  high  ' ;  we  scarce  can  sink 

as  low  : 
For  men  at  most  diff'er  as  Heaven  and 

earth. 
But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven 

and  Hell. 

1  know  the  Table  Round,  my  friendsof  old  j 
All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and  some 

chaste. 


MERLIN   AND   VIVIEN. 


173 


I  think  she  cloaks  the  wounds  of  loss  with 

lies ; 
I  do  believe  she  tempted  them  and  fail'd, 
She  is  so  bitter :  for  line  ])lots  may  fail, 
Tho'  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  as  face 
With  colors  ofthe  heart  that  are  not  theirs. 
I  will  not  let  her  know :  nine  tithes  of 

times 
Face-flatterers  and  backbiters  are   the 

same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute 

a  crime 
Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  themselves, 
Wanting  the  mental  range  ;  or  low  desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level  all ; 
Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to 

the  plain. 
To  leave  an  equal  baseness  ;  and  in  this 
Areharlotslikethe  crowd,  that  if  they  find 
Some  .stain  or  blemisli  in  a  name  of  note. 
Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so 

small, 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  de- 
light. 
And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of  clay, 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crowu'd  with  spiritual 

fire, 
And  touching  other  worlds.     I  am  weary 

of  her." 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in  whis- 
pers part, 
Half-suiTocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter'd  fleece  of  throat  and 

chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his 

mood. 
And  hearing  "harlot "  mutter'd  twice  or 

thrice, 
Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and  stood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  frozen  ;  loathsome  sight. 
How  from  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love, 
Flash'd   the   bare-grinning  skeleton    of 

death  ! 
White  was  her  cheek  ;  sharp  breaths  of 

anger  puff' d 
Her  fairy  nostril  out ;   her  hand  half- 

cleneh'd 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to  her 

belt. 
And  feeling ;  had  she  found  a  dagger  there 
(For  in  a  wink  the  false  love  turns  to  hate) 
She  would  have  stabb'd  him  ;   but  she 

found  it  not : 
His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she  took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a  beaten  child. 


A  long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 
Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken 
with  sobs. 

'■  O  crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale. 
Or  sung  in  song  !  0  vainly  lavish'd  love  ] 

0  cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange. 
Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame  in 

love. 
So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  yours  is  — 

nothing 
Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his  trust 
Who  eall'd  her  what  he  call'd  her— all 

her  crime. 
All  —  all  —  the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly 

hers." 

She  mused  a  little,  and  then  clapt  her 

hands 
Together  with  a  wailing  shriek,  and  said : 
"Stabb'd  through  the  heart's  affections 

to  the  heai't  ! 
Seethed  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother's 

milk  ! 
Kill'd  with  a  word  worse  than  a  life  of 

blows  ! 

1  thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being  great: 

0  God,  that  1  had  loved  a  smaller  man  ! 

1  should  iiave  found  in  him  a  greater  heart. 
O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion,  saw 
The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark 

in  your  light, 
Who  love  to  make  men  darker  than  they 

are. 
Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I  had 
To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 
Of  worship  —  I  am  answer'd,  and  hence- 
forth 
The  course  of  life  that  seem'd  so  flowery 

to  me 
With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only  you. 
Becomes  the    sea-cliff  pathway  broken 

short. 
And  ending  in  a  ruin  —  nothing  left. 
But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and  there. 
If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life  away, 
Kill'd  with  inutterable  unkindliness." 

She  paused,  .she  turn'd  away,  she  hung 

her  head. 
The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair,  the 

braid 
Slipt  and  uncoil'd  itself,  she  wept  afresh, 
And  the  dark  wood  gi-ew  darker  toward 

the  storm 
In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 


lU 


MERLIN   AND    VIVIEN. 


'  Leapt  from  her  session  nn  his  Hp,  and  srood 
Stiff  as  a  viper  irozen  " 


FoT  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her 

true  : 
Call'd  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 
*'  Come  from  the  storm  "  and  having  no 

reply, 
Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the 

face 
Hand-hidden,    as    for   utmost   grief    or 

shame  ; 
Then  thrice  essay'd,  by  tenderest-touch- 

ing  terms 
To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in'vain. 
At  last  she  let  herself  be  cone  [uer'dby  him. 
And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  returns, 
The  seeming-injured  simple-hearted  thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled 

there. 


There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from  his 

knees, 
Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he  saw 
The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed  eye= 

lid  yet. 
About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in  love. 
The  gentle  wizard  cast  a  shielding  arm. 
But  she  dislink'd  herself  at  once  and  rose, 
Her  arms  Tipon  her  breast  across,  and 

stood 
A  virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply  wrong' dj 
Upright  and  flush'd  before  him  :  then  she 

said  : 

' '  There  must  be  now  no  passages  of  love 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  evenoore, 
Since,  if  I  be  what  I  am  grossly  call'd, 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


175 


What  should  be  granted  which  your  own 

gross  heart 
Would  reckon  worth  the  taking  ?  I  will  go. 
In  truth,  but  one  thing  now  —  better  have 

died 
Thrice  than  have  ask'd  it  once  — ■  could 

make  me  stay  — 
That  proof  of  trust  —  so  often  asked  in 

vain  I 
How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 
I  find  with  grief  !     I  might  believe  you 

then, 
Who  knows  ?  once  more.     0,  what  was 

once  to  me 
Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  has  grown 
The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 
Farewell ;  think  kindly  of  me,  for  I  fear 
My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you  still. 
But  ere  I  leave  you  let  me  swear  once 

more 
That  if  I  schemed  against  your  peace  in 

this. 
May  yon  just -heaven,  that  darkens  o'er 

me,  send 
One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else, 

may  make 
My  scheming  brain  a  cinder,  if  I  lie." 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of 

heaven  a  bolt 
(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above  them) 

struck. 
Furrowing  a  giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the 

wood 
The  dark  earth  round.   He  raised  liis  eyes 

and  saw 
The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro'  the 

gloom. 
But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard  her 

oath. 
And  dazzled  bj'the  livid-flickering  fork, 
And  deafen'd  with  the  stammering  cracks 

and  claps 
That  follow'd,  flying  back  and  crying  out, 
' '  0  Merlin,  tho'  you  do  not  love  me,  save. 
Yet  save  me  ! "  clung  to  him  and  hugg'd 

him  close  ; 
And  call'd  him  dear  protector  in  her  fright, 
Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her  fright, 
But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  hugg'd 

him  close. 
The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her  touch 
Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warm'd. 
She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay 

tales  : 


She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  lier  fault  she 

wept 
Of  petulaucy  ;  she  call'd  him  lord  and 

liege. 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve, 
Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate 

love 
Of  lier  whole  life  ;  and  ever  overhead 
Bellow'd  the   tempest,  and  the  rottec 

branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river  rain 
Above  them  ;  and  in  change  of  glare  and 

gloom 
Her  eyes  and  neck  glittering  went  and 

came  ; 
Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion 

spent, 
]\Ioaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 
Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  once 

more 
To  peace  ;   and  what   should   not  have 

been  had  been, 
For  Merlin,  overtalk'd  and  overworn, 
Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm,  and 

slept. 

Tlien,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth 

the  charm 
Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 
And  in  the  hollow  oak  lie  lay  as  dead. 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and 

fame. 

Then  crying  "  I  have  made  his  glory 

mine," 
And  shrieking  out  "  0  fool  !  "  the  harlot 

leapt 
Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echo'd  "fool." 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 

Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a  tower  to  the 

east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 
Which  first  she  placed  where  morning's 

earliest  ray 
Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the 

gleam  ; 
Thenfearingrust  or  soilure  fashion'd  for  it 
A  case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazou'd  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 
A  border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower, 


176 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


And  yellow-throated  nestl'ng  in  the  nest. 
Nor  rested   thus   content,  but  day  hy 

day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father 

climb' (1 
That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr'd 

her  door, 
Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked 

shield. 
Now  guess'd  a  hidden  meaning  in  his 

arms, 
Now  made  a  pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a  sword  had  beaten  in  it, 
And  every  scratch  a  lance  had  made  upon 

it, 
Conjecturing  when  and  where  :  this  cut 

is  fresh  ; 
That  ten  years  back  ;  this  dealt  him  at 

Caerlyle  ; 
That  at  Caerleou  ;  this  at  Camelot  :     ■ 
And  ah  God's  mercy  what  a  stroke  was 

there  ! 
And  here  a  thrust  that  might  have  kill'd, 

but  God 
Broke  the  strong  lance,  and   roll'd  his 

enemy  down. 
And  saved  him  :  so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 

shield 
Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev'n  his 

name  ? 
He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond 

jousts. 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain' d,  and  by  that 

name 
Had  named  them,  since  a  diamond  was 

the  prize. 

For  Arthur  long  before  they  crown'd 

him  king. 
Roving  the   trackless  realms  of  Lyon- 

nesse. 
Had  found  a  glen,  gray  boulder  and  black 

tarn. 
A  horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain 

side  : 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a  king,  had 

met 
And  fought  together  ;  but  their  names 

were  lost. 
And   each  had    slain    his   brother  at  a 

blow, 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 

abhorr'd : 


And  there  they  lay  tiU  all  their  bones 

were  bleach'd. 
And  lichen'd  into  color  with  the  crags  : 
Andhe,  that  once  washing,  had  onacrown 
Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four  aside. 
And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the 

pass 
All  in  a  misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had  trodden  that  crown'd  skeleton,  and 

the  skull 
Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull 

the  crown 
Roll'd  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 
Fled  like  a  glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn  : 
And  down  the  .shingly  scaur  he  plunged, 

and  caught, 
And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs  "  lo,  thou  likewise  shalt 

be  king." 

Thereafter,  when  a  king,  he  had  the 

gems 
Pluck'd  from  the  crown,  and  show'd  them 

to  his  knights. 
Saying    "  these    jewels,     whereupon    I 

chanced 
Divinely,    are   the   kingdom's    not   the 

king's  — 
Forpublicuse ;  henceforwardlettherebe, 
Once  every  year,  a  joust  for  one  of  these  : 
For  so  by  nine  years'  proof  we  needs  must 

learn 
Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves 

shall  grow 
In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
The  Heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule 

the  land 
Hereafter,  which  G  od  hinder. "    Thus  he 

spoke  : 
And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had 

been,  and  still 
Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the 

year, 
AVith  purpose  to   present   them  to  the 

Queen, 
When  all  were  won  ;  but  meaning  all  at 

once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  \\ith  a  boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken 

word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the 

last 
A  nd  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his  court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which 

now 
Is  this  world's  hugest,  let  proclaim  a  jousl 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


177 


At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  (for  she  nad  been  sick)  to  Guine- 
vere 
"  Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot 

move 
To  these  fair  jousts  ? "    "  Yea,  lord, "  she 

said,  "ye  know  it." 
"Then   will    ye   miss,"   he    answer'd, 

' '  the  great  deeds 
Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 
A  sight  ye  love  to  look  on."     And  the 

Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  be-siue  the 

King. 
He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning 

there, 
"  Stay  with  me,  I  am  sick  ;  my  love  is 

more 
Than  many  diamonds,"  yielded,  and  a 

heart. 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 
(However  much  he  yearn'd  to  make  com- 
plete 
The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined  boon) 
Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth, 

and  say, 
"  Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hard- 

I3'  whole, 
And  lets  me  from  the  saddle  "  ;  and  tlie 

King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  lier,  and  went 

his  way. 
No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began. 

"To  blame,  my  lord   Sir   Lancelot, 

much  to  blame. 
Why  go  ye  not  to  these  fair  jousts  ?  the 

knights 
Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the 

crowd 
Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless  ones,  who 

take 
Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is 

gone  !  " 
Then  Lancelot  vext  at  having  lied  in  vain  : 
■'Are  ye  so  wise  ?  ye  were  not  once  so 

wise, 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  ye  loved 

me  first. 
Then  of  the  crowd  ye  took  no  more  ac- 
count 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead, 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade 

of  grass. 
And  every  voice  is  nothing.  Astoknights, 
Them  surelv  can  1  silence  with  all  ease. 


But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow'd 
Ofallmen  :  many  a  bard,  without  offence, 
Has  link'd  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guine- 
vere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty  :  and  our  knights  at 

feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the 

king 
Would  listen  smiling.     How  then  ?  is 

there  more  ? 
Has   Arthur  .spoken   aught  ?  or  would 

yourself. 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir. 
Henceforth  be  truertoyourfaultlesslord?" 

She  broke  into  a  little  .scornful  laugh. 
"Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless 

King, 
That    passionate    perfection,    my   good 

lord  — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heaven  ? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me. 
He  never  had  a  glimpse  of  mine  untruth. 
He  cares  not  for  me  :  only  here  to-day 
There  gleam'd  a  vague  suspicion  in  his 

eyes  : 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper'd  vnth 

him  —  else 
Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 
And  .swearing  men  to  vows  imjiossible. 
To  make  them  like  himself :  but,  friend, 

to  me 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all  ; 
For  who  loves  me  must  have  a  touch  of 

earth  ; 
The  low  sun  makesthe  color  :  I  am  yours. 
Not  Arthur's,  as  ye  know,  save  by  the 

bond. 
And  therefore  hear  my  words  :  go  to  the 

jousts  : 
The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our 

dream 
When  sweetest ;  and  the  vermin  voices 

here 
May  buz/5  so  loud  — we  scorn  them,  but 

they  sting." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 
knights. 
' '  And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext 

made. 
Shall  I  appear,  O  Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a  king  who  honors  his  own  word, 
As  if  it  were  his  God's  ? " 

"  Yea,"  said  the  Queen, 
"A  moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule, 


178 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


Else  had  he  not  lost  me  :  but  listen  to  me, 
If  1  must  find  you  wit :  we  hear  it  said 
Tliat  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at 

a  touch 
But   knowing  you   are  Lancelot ;   your 

great  name, 
This  conquers  :  hide  it  therefore  ;  go  un- 
known : 
Win  !  by  this  kiss  you   will :   and  our 

true  king 
Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  0  my  knight, 
As  all  for  glory  ;  for  to  speak  him  true. 
Ye    know  right  well,   how  meek    soe'er 

he  seem, 
No  keener  hu.iter  after  glory  breathes. 
He  loves  it   in  his  knights   more  than 

himself  : 
They  prove  to  liim  his  work  :  win  and 

return." 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse, 
Wroth   at   himself:   not   willing   to   be 

known, 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare. 
Chose  the  green   path  that  show'd  the 
rarer  foot, 


And  there  among  the  solitary  downs, 
Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way  ; 
Till  as  he  traced  a  faintly-shadow'd  track, 
That  all  inloops  andlinksamongthedales 
Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a  hill,  the 

towers. 
Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gateway 

horn. 
Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrin- 
kled man. 
Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm'd. 
And  Lancelot  marvell'd  at  the  wordless 

man  ; 
And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  stiong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and  Sir 

Lavaine, 
Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court ; 
And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily  maid 
Elaine,  his  daughter  :  motherof  thehouse 
There  was  not :  some  light  jest  among 

them  rose 
With  laughter  dying  down  ar  the  great 

knight 
Approach' d    them  :   then  the    Lord   of 

Astolat. 


'  Then  came  an  old.  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled  man. 
Who  let  him  into  lodeinff  and  disarm'd." 


LANCELOT   AND    ELAINE. 


179 


"Whence  come.'^  thou,  my  guest,  and 
by  what  name 

Livest  between  the  lips  ?  for  by  thy  state 

And  presence  I  might  guess  thee  chief  of 
those, 

After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur's  halls. 

Him  have  1  seen :  the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  un- 
known." 

Then  answer'd  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 

knights. 
"  Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur's  hall,  and 

known, 
AVhat  I  by  mere  mischance  have  brought, 

my  shield. 
But  since  I  go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not. 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me  —  and  the 

shield  — ■ 
I  pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have, 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 

mine." 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  "  Here 

is  Torre's  : 
Hurt  in  his   tirst  tilt  was  my  son.  Sir 

Torre. 
And   so,   God  wot,  his  shield   is  blank 

enough. 
His  ye  can  have."     Then    added  plain 

Sir  Torre, 
"Yea  since    I  cannot   use  it,  yc   may 

have  it." 
Here  laugh'd  the  father  saying  "  Fie,  Sir 

Churl, 
Ts  that  an  answer  for  a  noble  knight? 
AUowhim:  l)ut  Lavaine,niy  younger  here, 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride, 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  briug  it  in  an 

hour 
And  set  it  in  this  damsel's  golden  hair, 
To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before." 

"  Nay,  father,  nay  good  father,  shame 

me  not 
Before  this   noble   knight "  said  young 

Lavaine 
"  For  nothing.     Surely  I  but  play'd  on 

Torre  : 
He  seem'd  so  sullen,  vexthe  could  not  go  : 
A  jest,  no  more  :  for,  knight,  the  maiden 

dream. 
That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her 

hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held, 


And  slipt  and  fell  iuto   some  pool  or 

stream. 
The  castle-well,  belike  ;  and  then  I  said 
That  if  I  went  and  if\  fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves) 
'ihen  must  she  keep  it  safelier.     All  was 

jest. 
But  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 
To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight  j 
Win  shall  I  not,  but  do  my  best  to  win : 
Young  as  I  am,  yet  would  I  do  my  best.' 

"So   ye   will   grace    me,"    answer'd 

Lancelot, 
Smiling  a  moment, ' '  with  your  fellowship 
O'er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I  lost 

myself. 
Then  were  I  glad  of  you  as  guide  and 

friend  ; 
.And  you  shall  win  this  diamond  ^  as  I 

hear. 
It  is  a  fair  large  diamond,  —  if  ye  may, 
And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  ye  will." 
"A   fair   large   diamond,"  added  plain 

Sir  Tone, 
"  Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  simple 

maids." 
Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 

ground, 
Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush'd  slightly  at  the  slight  disparage- 
ment 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking 

at  her. 
Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  return'd. 
"If  what  is  fair  bo  but  for  what  is  fair, 
And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so, 
Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem 

this  maid 
ilight  wear  as  fair  a  jewel  as  is  on  earth. 
Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like." 

He  spoke  and  ceased  :  the  lily  maid 

Elaine, 
Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  look'd^ 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  his  lineaments. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the 

Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord, 
Had  marr'd  his  face,  and  mark'd  it  ere  his 

time. 
Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one. 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the 

world, 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it  :  but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a  fiend,  and  rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes- 


180 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAD^E. 


''  Lifted  her  eyce,  and  read  his  lineameiils." 


for  agony,  who  was  yet  a  living  soul. 
Marr'd  as  he  was,  he  seem'd  the  goodliest 

man, 
That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 
And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  eyes. 
However  marr'd,  of  more  than  twice  her 

years, 
Seam'd  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on  the 

cheek, 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up 

her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was 

her  doom. 

Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of 
the  court, 
Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 


Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  hall 

disdain 
Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a  smaller  time. 
But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind : 
Whom  they  Avith  meats  and  vintage  of 

their  best 
And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertain 'd. 
And  much  they  ask'd  of  court  and  Table 

Eound, 
And  ever  well  and  readily  answer'd  he  : 
But   Lancelot,    when    they   glanced   at 

Guinevere, 
Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man, 
Heard  from  the  Baron  that,   ten  years 

before. 
The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  hia 

tongue. 


LANCELOT   AND    ELAINK 


181 


"  He  learnt  and  waru'd  me  of  their  fierce 

design 
Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught 

and  maim'd  ; 
But  I  my  sons  and  little  daughter  fled 
•^rani  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among 

the  wootls 
Bv  the  great  river  in  a  boatman's  hut. 
Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur 

broke 
The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill." 

"0    there,    great    Lord,    doubtless," 

Lavaine  said,  rapt 
By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of 

youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  "  you  have 

fought. 
0  tell  us  —  for  we  live  apart  —  you  know 
Of  Arthur's  glorious  wars."  And  Lan- 
celot sjioke 
And  answer'd  him  at  full,  as  having  been 
With  yVrtlmr  in  the  light  which  all  day  long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 

t;iem  ; 
And  in  the  four  wild  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas  ;  that  on  Bassa  ;  then  the  war 
That  th\iniler'd  in  and  out  the  gloomy 

skirts 
Of  Celidon  the  forest ;  and  again 
By  castle  Gunuon  where  the  glorious  King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady's  Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald,  center'd  in  a  sun 
Of   silver    rays,    that    lighten'd    as    he 

breathed  ; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help'd  his  lord, 
When  the  strong  neighiugs  of  the  wild 

white  Horse 
Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering  ; 
And  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too, 
And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath 

Treroit, 
Where  many  a  heathen  fell;  "and  on 

the  mount 
Of  Badou  I  myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 
And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him, 
A.nd  break  them  ;  and  I  saw  him,  after, 

stand 
High  on  a  heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to  plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood, 
And  seeing  me,  with  a  great  voice  he  cried 
'  They  are  broken,  they  are  broken '  for 

the  King, 
However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares 
For  triumph  in  our  mimic   wai's,  the 

jousts  — 


For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he 

laughs 
Saying,  his  knights  are  better  men  than 

he  — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  ot  God 
Fills  him  :  1  neversaw  his  like  :  there  lives 
No  greater  leader." 

While  he  utter'd  this., 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid 
"Save  your  great  .self,  fair  lord";  and 

when  he  fell 
From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry  — 
Jibing  mirthful  he  but  in  a  stately  kind — 
She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living 

smilf 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a  cloud 
Of  melanchol}-  severe,  from  which  again, 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him 

cheer, 
There  brake  a  sudden-beaming  tender- 
ness 
Ofmannersandofnature :  andshe thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her. 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived, 
As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face, 
Divinely  thro'  all  hindranee  finds theinan 
Behind  it,  and  so  j)aints  him  that  his  face, 
The  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and  life, 
Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest ;  so  the  face  before  her  lived, 
Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence, 

full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her 

sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  haLf-cJieated  in  the 

thought 
She  needs  must  bid  farewell   to  sweet 

Lavaiue. 
First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating  : 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  tin 

court, 
"This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?' 

and  Lavaine 
Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the 

tower. 
There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  turn'dj 

and  smooth'd 
The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 
Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she 

drew 
Nearer  and  stood.     He  look'd,  and  more 

amazed 
Than  if  .seven  men  had  set  iipor.  him,  saw 
The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 
He  had  not  dream' d  she  was  so  beautifuL 


182 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


Then  came  on  him  a  sort  of  sacred  fear, 
For  silent,  tho'  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 
Ra])t  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a  God's. 
Suddenly  liash'd  on  her  a  wild  desire, 
That  he  sh.ould  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt. 
She  braved  a  riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 
"  Fair  lord,  whose  name  I  know  not  — 

noble  it  is, 
I  well  believe,  the  noblest  — will  you  wear 
My  favor  at  this  tourney?"     "Nay," 

said  he, 
"  Fair  lady,  since  I  never  yet  have  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 
Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know  me, 

know." 
*'  Yea,  so,"  she  answer'd  ;  "  then  in  wear- 
ing mine 
Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble 

lord, 
That  those  who  know  should  know  you." 

And  he  turn'd 
Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind, 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer'd,  "true, 

my  child. 
Well,  I  will  wear  it :  fetch  it  out  to  me  : 
What  is  it?"  and  she  told  him  "a  red 

sleeve 
Broider'd  with  pearls,"  and  brought  it : 

then  he  bound 
Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a  smile 
Sajdng,  "  I  never  yet  have  done  so  much 
For  any  maiden  living,"  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face  and  fill'd  her  with  de- 
light ; 
But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning   brought  the   yet-unblazon'd 

.shield. 
His  brother's ;  which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine  ; 
•'  Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my 

shield 
In  keeping  till  I  come."     "A  grace  to 

me," 
She  answer'd,  "  twice  to-day.    I  am  your 

Squire." 
Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing,  ' '  Lily 

maid, 
For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back  ; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice  :  now  get  you 

hence  to  bed  "  : 
So  kiss'd  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 

hand, 
And  thus  they  moved  away  :  she  stay'd 

a  minute, 
Then  made  a  sudden  step  to  the  gate. 

aud  there  — 


Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  seiious 

face 
Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother'skiss — 
Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the 

shield 
In  silence,  while  she  watch'd  their  arms 

far-off 
Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climb' d,  and  took 

the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past 
away 

Far  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
downs, 

To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived 
a  knight 

Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years 

A  hermit,  who  had  pray  d,  labor'd  and 
pray'd 

And  ever  laboring  had  scoop'd  himself 

In  the  white  rock  a  ehapel  and  a  hall 

On  massive  columns,  like  a  shorecliff 
cave, 

And  cells  and  chambers  :  all  were  fair 
and  dry  ; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows  under- 
neath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky 
roofs  ; 

And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen- 
trees 

And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling 
showers. 

And  thither  wending  there  that  night 
they  bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  un- 
derground, 

And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro'  the 
cave, 

They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and 
rode  away  : 

Then  Lancelot  saying,  "hear,  but  hold 
my  name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake," 

Abash'd  Lavaine,  whose  instant  rever- 
ence. 

Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their 
own  praise, 

But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,  "is  it 
indeed  ? " 

And  after  mattering  "  the  great  Lancelot" 

At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer'd 
"One, 


r.ANCKLOT   AND   ELAINE. 


183 


"  Then  to  her  tower  she  climb'd.  and  took  the  shield. 
There  kept  it.  and  so  lived  in  fantasy." 


One  have  T  seen  —  tliat  other,  our  liege 

lord. 
j  The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain's  king  of 

kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 
He  will  be  there  —  then  were  I  stricken 

blind 
That  minute,  I  might  say  that  I  had  seen. " 

So    spake   Lavaine,    and    when    they 

reach'd  the  lists 
By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro'  the  peopled  gallery  which  half 

round 
Lay  like  a  rainbow  fall'n  upon  the  grass. 
Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King, 

who  sat 


Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known, 

Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon 
clung. 

And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  writhed 
in  gold. 

And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him 
crept 

Two  drajjons gilded,  slopingdown  to  make 

Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of 
them 

Thro'  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innumer- 
,  able 

Fled  ever  thro'  the  woodwork,  till  they 
found 

The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  them- 
selves. 

Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  \<7ork  -• 


184 


LANCELOT   AND    ELAINE. 


And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o'er  him  set, 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless 

king. 
Then  Lancelot  answer'd  young  Lavaine 

and  said, 
"  Me  you  call  great :  mine  is  the  firmer 

seat, 
The  tnier lance  :  but  there ismanya  youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  1  am 
And  overcome  it ;  and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  gi'eatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off 

touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great  : 
There  is  the  man."     And  Lavaine  gaped 

upon  him 
As  on  a  thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew  ;  and  then  did  either 

side. 
They  that  assail'd,  and  they  that  held 

the  lists. 
Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly 

move. 
Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,  that  a  man  far-off  might  well  per- 
ceive, 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield. 
The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a  low  thunder 

of  arms. 
And  Lancelot  bode  a  little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker  ;  then  he  hurl'd 

into  it 
Against  the  stronger  :  little  need  to  speak 
Of  Lancelot  in  hisglory :  King,  duke,  earl. 
Count,  baron  —  whom  he  smote,  he  over- 
threw. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot's  kith 

and  kin, 
Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held 

the  lists. 
Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a  stranger 

knight 
Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot ;  and  one  said  to  the  other 

"Lo  ! 
What  is  he  ?     1  do  not  mean  the  force 

alone, 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man  — 
Is  it  not  Lancelot  !  "   "When  has  Lance- 
lot worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 
Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know  him, 

know." 
"  How  then  ?  who  then  ? "  a  fury  seized 

on  them, 
A  fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a  glory  one  with  theirs. 


They  couch'd  their  spears  and  prick'd 

their  steeds  and  thus. 
Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the 

wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  asa  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North-sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward   the  summit, 

bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the 

skies, 
DoAvn  on  a  bark,  and  overbears  thebarkj 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a  spear 
Down-glancing,  lamed  the  charger,  and  a 

spear 
Prick'd  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the 

head 
Pierced  thro'  his  side,  and  there  snapt, 

and  remain'd. 

Then  S-r  Lavaine  did  well  and  worship- 
fully  ; 

He  bore  a  knight  of  old  repute  to  the 
earth. 

And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where 
he  lay. 

He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got. 

But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet 
endure. 

And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest, 

His  party,  —  tho'  it  seemed  half-miracle 

To  those  he  fought  with  —  drave  his  kith 
and  kin. 

And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 
lists, 

Back  to  the  barrier  ;  then  the  heralds 
blew 

Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the 
sleeve 

Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ;  and  all  the 
knights, 

His  party,  cried  ' '  Advance,  and  take 
your  prize 

The  diamond"  ;  but  he  answer'd,  "dia- 
mond me 

No  diamonds  !  for  God's  love,  a  little  air ! 

Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death  ! 

Hence  will  1  and  I  charge  you,  follow  mi 
not." 

He  spoke,  and  vanish'd  suddenly  from 

the  field 
With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar  grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and 

sat, 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  ' '  draw  the  lanc«- 

head  "  : 


'  And  down  he  sank  lor  the  pure  pain."     See  page  185. 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


185 


"Ah  my  sweet  lord  Sir  Lancelot,"  said 

Lavaine, 
"  I  dread  me,  if  I  draw  it,  ye  will  die." 
But  he  "I  die  already  with  it  :  draw  — 
Praw,"  —  and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that 

other  gave 
A  marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly 

groan, 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down 

he  sank 
For  the  pure  pain,  and  wholly  swoon'd 

away. 
Then  cameth:=hennit  out  and  bare  him  in, 
There  stanch'd  his  wound  ;  and  there,  in 

daily  doubt 
Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a  week 
Hid  from  the  wide  world's  rumor  by  the 

grove 
Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling 

showers. 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled 
the  lists. 
His  partv,  knights  of  utmost  North  and 

West, 
Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate 

isles, 
Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  say- 
ing to  him 
"  Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro'  whom  we 

won  the  day 
Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left 

his  prize 
Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death." 
"  Heaven  hinder,"  said  the  King,  "that 

such  an  one, 
So  great  a  knight  as  we  have  seen  to- 
day — 
He  seem'd  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 
Yea,  twenty  times  I  thought  him  Lance- 
lot- 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.  Wherefore 
rise, 

0  Gawain,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 

knight. 
Wounded  and  wearied  needs  must  he  be 
near. 

1  charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes 

not  one  of  you 
Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly 

given  : 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.     We  will 

do  him 
No  ciistomary  honor  :  since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  pnze, 


Onr-selves  will  send  it  after.     Rise  and 

take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return, 
And  bring  us  where  he  is  and  how  he  fares, 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest,  until  you 

find." 

So  sayingfrom  th;'  carven  flower  above, 
To  which  it  made  a  restless  heart,  he  took, 
Andgave,  the  diamond  :  then  from  where 

he  sat 
At  Arthur's  right,  with  smilin.,'facearos8. 
With  smiling  face  and  f*rowning  heart,  a 

Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair 

and  strong. 
And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  andGeraint 
And  Lamorack,  a  good  knight,  but  there- 
withal 
Sir  Modred's  brother,  of  a  crafty  house. 
Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king's  command  to  sally 

forth 
1  n  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him 

leave 
The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights 

and  kings. 

So  all  in  wrath  he  got  to  horse  and  went ; 
While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in 

mood. 
Past,  thinking  "is  it  Lancelot  who  has 

come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to  wound. 
And  ridd'n  away  to  die  ? "     So  fear'd  the 

King, 
And,  after  two  days  tarnance  there,  re- 

turn'd. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing 

ask'd, 
"Love,  are  you  yet  so  .sick?"     "Nay, 

lord,"  she  said. 
"And  where  is  Lancelot?"     Then  the 

Queen  amazed 
"  Was  he  not  with  you  ?  won  he  not  your 

prize  ? " 
"  Nay,  but  one  like  him."     "  Why  that 

like  was  he." 
And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she 

knew, 
Said    ' '  Lord,  no  sooner  had  ye  parted 

from  us, 
Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a  common  talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  ai 

a  touch. 


186 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot  ;  his  great 

name 
Conquer' d  ;  and  therefore  would  he  hide 

his  name 
From  all  men,  ev'n  theking,  and  to  this  end 
Had  made   the   pretext  of  a  hindering 

wound, 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and 

learn 
If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decay'd  : 
4.nd  added,  '  our  true  Arthur,  when  he 

learns, 
Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.' " 

Then  replied  the  King  : 
"  Farlovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been. 
In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth, 
To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trusted  you. 
Surely  liis  king  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.     True, 

indeed, 
Albeit  I  know  my  knights  fantastical, 
So  fine  a  fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter  : 

now  remains 
But  little  cause  for  laughter  :   his  own 

kin  — 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  who  love  him, 

these  ! 
His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon 

him  ; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the 

field: 
Yet  good  news  too  :  for  goodly  hopes  are 

mine 
That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a  lonely  heart. 
He  wore,  against  his  wont,  rrpon  his  helm 
A  sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great 

pearls, 
Some  gentle  maiden's  gift." 

"Yea,  lord,"  she  said, 
"  Your  hopes  are  mine,"  and  saying  that 

she  choked, 
Andsharply  turn'dabout  to  hideher  face, 
Past   to  her  chamber,  and  there   flung 

herself 
Down  on   the  great  King's  couch,  and 

writhed  upon  it, 
And  clench'd  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the 

palm, 
And  shriek'd  out  "traitor"  to  the  un- 

hearing  wall, 
Then  flash'd  into  wild  tears,  and   rose 

again. 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and 

pale. 


Gawain  the  while  thro'  all  the  region 

round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  wearied  of  the 

quest, 
Touch'd  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar 

gi'ove, 
And  came  at  last,  tho'  late,  to  Astolat ; 
Whom  glittei'ing  in  enamell'd  arms  the 

maid 
Glanced  at,  and  cried  "What  news  from 

Camelot,  lord  ? 
AVhat  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve  ?" 

"  He  won." 
"I  knew  it,"  she  said.      "But  parted 

from  the  jousts 
Hurt  in  the  side,"  whereat  she  caught 

her  breath  ; 
Thro'  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance 

go; 
Thereon  she  smote  her  hand  :  wellnigh 

she  swoon'd  : 
And,  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her, 

came 
The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the 

Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not 

find 
The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly  round 
To  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  the  search. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat  "  Bide  with 

us. 
And  ride  no  longer  wildly,  noble  Prince  ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a 

shield  ; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for  :  further- 
more 
Our  son  is  with  him  ;  we  shall  hear  anon, 
Needs  must  we  hear."   To  this  tbe  cour- 
teous Prince 
Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy, 
Courtesy  with  a  touch  of  traitor  in  it, 
And  stay'd  ;  and  cast  his   eyes  on  fair 

Elaine  : 
Where   could   be   found   face   daintier? 

then  her  shape 
From  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect — • 

again 
From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turn'd  : 
"Well  — if  1  bide,  lo  !  this  wild  flower 

for  me  ! " 
And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews, 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon 

her 
With   sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a 

height 
!  Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  andsonga, 


LANCELOT   AND    ELAINE. 


187 


Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  elo- 
quence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebell'd    against    it,    saying    to    him, 

"Prince, 
0  loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 
Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shieKl  lie  left, 
Whence   you   might    learn    his   name ! 

Why  slight  your  King, 
And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and 

prove 
N'o  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday, 
r^lio  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  hiui  at,  and 

went 
To   all  the  winds?"     "Nay,   by  mine 

head,"  said  he, 
"  I  lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 

0  damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes  : 
But  an  ye  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield." 
And  wlien  the  shield  was  brought,  and 

Gawain  saw 
Sir  Lancelot's  azure  lions,  crown'd  with 

gold. 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh, 

and  mock'd  ; 
•'  Right  was  the  King  !   our  Lancelot  ! 

that  true  man  !  " 
"And  right  was  I,"  she  answer'd  mer- 

rily,  "  I, 
Who  dream'd   my  knight   the  greatest 

knight  of  all." 
"  And  if /dream'd,"  said  Gawain,  "  that 

you  love 
This  great'?st  knight,  your  pardon  !  lo, 

you  know  it  ! 
Speak  therefore  :  shall  I  waste  myself  in 

vain  ? " 
Full  simple   was  her    answer    "What 

know  1  ? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship, 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk'd  of 

love, 
Wish'd  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they 

talk'd, 
Meseem'd,  of  what  they  knew  not ;  so 

myself  — 

1  know  not  if  1  know  what  true  love  is. 
But  if  I  know,  then,  if  I  love  not  him, 
Methinks  there  is  none  other  I  can  love." 
"Yea,  by  God's  death,"  said   he,    "ye 

love  him  well. 
But  would  not,  knew  ye  what  all  others 

know, 
And  whom   he  loves."       "So   be   it," 

cried  Elaine, 
And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away  : 
Buthe  pursued  her  calling  "  Stay  a  little  ! 


One  golden  minute's  grace  :  he  wore  your 

sleeve  : 
Would  lae  break  faith  with  one  1  may  not 

name  ? 
Must  our  true  man  cliange  like  a  leaf  at 

last  ? 
Nay  —  like  enough  :  why  then,  far  be  it 

from  me 
To  cro.ss  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his  loves  ! 
.\nd,  damsel,  for  I  deem  you  know  full  well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let 

me  leave 
My  quest  with  you  ;  the  diamond  also  : 

here  ! 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it ; 
And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 
From  your  own  hand  ;  and  wliether  he 

love  or  not, 
A  diamond  is  a  diamond.    Fare  you  well 
A  thousand  times  !  —  a  thousand  times 

farewell  ! 
Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 
May  meet  at  court  hereafter  :   tliere,  I 

think. 
So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the 

court. 
We  two  shall  know  each  other." 

Then  he  gave, 
And  slightly  kiss'd  tl)e  hand  to  which  he 

gave. 
The   diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the 

quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he 

went 
A  true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 

Thence   to  the  court  he  past ;  there 
told  the  King 
What  the  King  knew  "Sir  Lancelot  is 

the  knight," 
And  added  "Sire,  my  liege,  so  mixch  I 

learnt  ; 
Butfail'dto  find  him  tho'  I  rode  all  round 
The  region  :  but  I  liglited  on  the  maid, 
Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ;  she  loves  him  ; 

and  to  her. 
Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 
I  gave  the  diamond  :  she  will  render  it ; 
For  by  mine  head  slie  knows  his  hiding- 
place." 

The   seldom-frowning   King  frown'd, 

and  replied, 
' '  Too  courteous  truly  !   ye  shall  go  no 

more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  ye  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings." 


188 


LANCELOT    AND   ELAINE. 


He  spake  and  parted.     Wroth  but  all 

in  awe, 
For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without 

a  word, 
Linger'd  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 
Then   shook    his   hair,    strode  off,   and 

buzz'd  abroad 
Abo;it  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 
All  ears  were  prick'd  at  once,  all  tongues 

were  loosed  : 
' '  The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot, 
Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat." 
Some   read   the    King's  face,  some   the 

Queen's,  and  all 
Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but 

most 
Predoom'd  her  as  unworthy.     One  old 

dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the 

sharp  news. 
She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  before. 
But  sorrowing    Lancelot   should    have 

stoop'd  so  low, 
Marr'd  her  friend's  point  with  pale  tran- 
quillity. 
So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 
Fire  iu  dry  stubble  a  nine  days'  wonder 

flared  : 
Till  ev'n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or 

thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to   Lancelot   and   the 

Queen, 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen 

who  sat 
With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet 

unseen 
Crusli'd  the  wild  passion  out  against  the 

floor 
Beneath  the  ban(iuet,  where  the  meats 

became 
As  wormwood,   and   she  hated  all  who 

pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 
Her  guiltless  rival,  .she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in    her 

heart, 
Crept  to  her  father,  v.hile  bemused  alone. 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and 

said, 
"Father,   you  call  me  wilful,   and  the 

fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and  now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my 

wits  ? " 


"Na}%"'  said  he,    "surely."      "Where- 
fore, let  me  hence," 
She  answer'd,    "and  find  out  our  dear 

Lavaine." 
"Ye  will   not  lose  your  vifits  for  dear 

Lavaine  : 
Bide,"  answer'd  he:    "we  needs  mu.st 

hear  anon 
Of  him,  and  of  that  other."     "  Ay,"  she 

said, 
"  Andof  thatother,  forlneedsmusthence 
And  find  that  other,  wheresoe'er  he  be. 
And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond 

to  him. 
Lest  I  be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest 

to  me. 
Sweet  father,  I  behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himseli; 
Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden'said. 
The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more 

bound. 
My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
To  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  ye  know. 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens  :  let 

me  hence 
I  pray  you."     Then  her  father  nodding 

said, 
"  Ay,  ay,  the  diamond  :  wit  you  well,  my 

child. 
Right  fain  were  1  to  learn  this  knight 

were  whole. 
Being  our  greatest :  yea,  and  you  niu.5t 

give  it  — 
And  sure  I  think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 
For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a  Queen's — 
Nay,  I  mean  nothing  :  so  then,  get  you 

gone, 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go." 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow'd,  shesliptaway, 
And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride, 
Her  father's  latest  word  huiiim'd  in  her  ear, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go," 
And  changed  itself  and  echoed  in  her 

heart, 
"  Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die." 
But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shookitoff, 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us  ; 
And  in  her  heart  she  answer'd  it  and  said, 
"What  matter,  so  I  help  him  back  to 

life  ? " 
Then  far  a  way  with  good  Sir  Torre  forguide 
Rode  o'er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 

downs 
To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city -gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a  happy  face 


LANCELOT   AND    ELAINE. 


189 


Making  a  roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleasure  all  about  a  field  of  flowers  : 
Whom  when  she  saw,   "Lavaiue,"  she 

cried,  "  Lavaine, 
How  fares  ray  lord  Sir  Lancelot  ? "     He 

amazed, 
*'  Torre  and  Elaine  !  why  here  ?  Sir  Lan- 
celot ! 
How  know  3'e  mylord's  name  is  Lancelot  ?" 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her 

tale, 
Then  turn'd  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his 

moods 
Left  them,  and  under  tlie  strange-statued 

gate, 
Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mys- 
tically. 
Past  up  th(!  still  rich  city  to  his  kin, 
His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  atCame- 

lot  ; 
And  her,  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 
Led  to  the  caves  :  there  first  she  saw  the 

casque 
OfLancelotonthewall :  her  scarlet  sleeve, 
Tho'  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls 

away, 
Stream'd  from  it  still  ;  and  in  her  heart 

she  laugli'il, 
Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his  helm. 
But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tour- 
ney in  it. 
And  when  they  gain'd  the  cell  in  which 

he  slept, 
His    battle-writhen   arms  and    mighty 

hands 
Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a  dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them 

move. 
Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  iinsleek, 

unshorn. 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Uttered  a  little  tender  dolorous  cry. 
The  sound  not  wonted  in  a  place  so  still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roU'd 

his  eyes 
Yet  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him, 

saying 
"Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by 

the  King  "  : 
His  eyes  glisten'd  :  she  fancied  "  is  it  for 

me  ?" 
And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the 

tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent, 

the  quest 
Assign'd  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt 
Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  beil, 


And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand. 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the  child 
That  does  the  task  assign'd,  he  kiss'd  her 

face. 
At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 
"  Alas,"  he  said,  "  your  ride  has  wearied 

you. 
Rest   must   you  have."     "  Xo  rest  for 

me,"  she  said  ; 
"  Nay,  fornearyou,  fair  lord,  I  amatrest. " 
What  might  she  mean  by  that  ?  his  large 

black  ej'es, 
Yet  larger  thro'  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon 

her. 
Till  all  her  heart's  sad  secret  blazed  itself 
In  the  heart's  colors  on  her  simple  face  ; 
And  Lancelot  look'd  and  was  perplext  in 

mind, 
And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more  ; 
But  did  not  love  the  color  ;  woman's  love, 
Save    one,     he    not    regarded,   and   so 

turn'd 
Sighing,  and  feign'd  a  sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro'  the 

fields, 
And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured 

gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin  ; 
There  bode  the  niglit  :   but  woke  with 

dawn,  and  past 
Down  thro'  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields, 
Thence  to  the  cave  :  so  day  by  day  she  past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him. 
And  likewise  many  a  night :  and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho'  he  call'd  his  wound  a  little 

hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at 

times 
Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony,  seem 
Uncourteous,  even  he :  but  the  meek  maid 
Sweetly  forebore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Jleeker  than  any  child  to  a  rough  nurse. 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a  sick  child. 
And  never  woman  yet,  since  man's  first 

fall. 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 
Upbore  her  ;  till  the  hermit,  skill'd  in  all 
The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time, 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his 

life. 
And  the  sick  manforgot  her  simple  blush, 
Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 

Elaine, 
Would  listen  for  her  comiuir  and  regret 
Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly, 


190 


L^VNCELOT  AJSfD   ELAJJSIE. 


"  She  kndt 
Full  lowly  by  the  comers  of  his  bed." 


And  loved  her  with  all  love  except  the  love 
Of  man  aTid  woman  when  they  love  their 

best 
Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 

death 
In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 
And  peradventure  had  he  seen  lier  first 
She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other 

world 
Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ;  but  now 
The  shacivles  of  an  old  love  straiten'd 

him, 
His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood, 
And  faith unfaithfulkepthim  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sick- 
ness made 
Full  many  a  holy  vow  and  pure  resolve. 
These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not 

live  : 
For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 

again, 
Full  often  the  sweet  image  of  one  face, 
^Making  a  treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a  cloud. 


Then  if  the  maiden,  wliile  that  ghostly 

grace 
Beam'd  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answer'd 

not, 
Or  short  and  coldli',  and  she  knew  right 

well 
What  the  rough  sicknessmeant,  but  what 

this  meant 
She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm'd 

her  sight, 
And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the  fields 
Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmui''d  "vain,  in  vain  :  it  can- 

not  be. 
He  will  not  love  me  :  how  then  ?  must 

I  die." 
Then  as  a  little  helpless  innocent  bird, 
Tliathasbut  one  plain  passage  of  few  notes, 
"Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  "must 

I  die  ? " 
And  now  to  right  she  tum'd,  and  now 

to  left. 


lANCELOT  AND   ELAINE 


191 


And  found  no  ease  in  tiuniiij^  or  in  rest ; 
And    '•  him   or    death "'    she   limtter'd, 

"death  or  him," 
Again  and  like  a  burthen,  "hira  or  death." 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot's  deadly  hurt 

was  whole, 
To  Astolat  I'eturning  rode  the  three. 
There  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet 

self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem'd  she  look'd 

her  best, 
She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she 

thought 
"  If  I  be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes. 
If  not,  the  victim's  flowers  before  he  fall. " 
And  Lancelot  ever  ](rest  upon  the  maid 
That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of 

him 
For  herown  self  or  hers;  "anddonotshuu 
To   speak  the  wish  most   dear  to  your 

true  heart ; 
Such  service  have  ye  done  me,  that  I 

make 
Idywillofyours,  and  Princeand  Lord  ami 
In  mine  owii  laud,  and  what  I  will  1  can. " 
Then  like  a  ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face, 


But  like  a  ghost  without  tlie  power  to 

speak. 
And  Laucelijt  saw  that  she  witiiheld  her 

wish. 
And  bode  among  them  yet  a  little  space 
Till  he  should  learn  it ;  and  one  mom 

it  chanced 
He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  ^xnvs. 
And  said,  "Delay  no  longer,  speak  your 

wish. 
Seeing  I  must  go  to-day"  :  then  out  she 

brake  ; 
"Going  ?  and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 
And  I  must  die  ibi-  want  of  one  bold  word. " 
"Speak  :  that  I  live  to  hear,"  he  said, 

"  is  yours." 
Then    suddenly    and   passionately    she 

spoke  : 
"  I  have  gone   mad.     I    love   you  :  let 

me  die." 
"  Ah,  sister,"  answer'd  Lancelot,  "  what 

is  this  ? " 
And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms, 
"  Your  love,"  she  said,  "your  love —  to 

be  your  wife." 
And  Lancelot  answer'd,  "Had  I  chos'n 

to  wed, 


"Ihen  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke." 


192 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


I  had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine  : 
But  now  there  neverwill  be  wifeof  mine." 
"  No,  no,"  she  cried,  "  I  care  not  to  be 

wife, 
But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 
To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro'  the 

world." 
And    Lancelot    answer'd,     "Nay,    the 

world,  the  world, 
All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a  stupid  heart 
To  interpret  ear  andeye,  andsuchatongue 
To  blare  its  own  interpretation  —  nay. 
Full  ill  then  should  I  quit  your  brothei''s 

love. 
And  your  good  father's  kindness."    And 

she  said 
"Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face — 
Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are  done. '' 
"Nay,  noble  maid,"  he  answer'd,  "ten 

times  nay  ! 
This  is  not  love  :  but  love's  first  flash  in 

youth. 
Most  common  :  yea  I  know  it  of  mine 

own  self : 
And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own 

self 
Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower 

of  life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your 

age: 
And  then  will  I,  for  ferue  you  are  and 

sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood, 
More  specially  should  your  good  knight 

be  poor, 
Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  seas. 
So  that  would  make  you  liappv  :  further- 
more, 
Ev'n  to  the  death,  as  tho'  ye  were  my 

blood, 
In  all  your  quarrels  will  I  be  your  knight. 
This  will  I  do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake. 
And  more  than  this  I  cannot." 

While  he  spoke 
She    neither    blush'd    nor    shook,    but 

deathly-pale 
Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then 

rejilied  ; 
"  Of  all  this  will  I  nothing  "  ;  and  so  fell. 
And  thus  they  bore  lier  swooning  to  her 

tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro'  those  black 
walls  of  yew 
Their  talk  liad  pierced,  her  father.    "  Ay, 
a  flash, 


I  fearme,  thatwillstrikemy  blossom  dead 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lancelot 
I  pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion." 

Lancelot  said, 
"That  were  against  me  :  what  I  can  1 

will "  ; 
And  there  that  day  remain'd,  and  toward 

even 
Sent  for  his  shield  :  full  meekly  rose  the 

maid, 
Stript  off'  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 

shield  ; 
Then,  when  she  heard   his  horse  upon 

the  stones. 
Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and 

look'd 
Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve 

had  gone. 
And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking 

sound  ; 
And  .she  b}^  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking 

at  him. 
And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved 

his  hand. 
Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 
This  was  theone  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat : 
His  very  shield  was  gone  ;  only  the  case, 
Herown  poor  woik,  her  empty  labor,  left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 

form'd 
And  gi'ew  between  her  and  the  pictured 

wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  sajdng  in  low  tones 
"Have    comfort,"    whom    she    greeted 

quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  ' '  Peace 

to  thee 
Sweet  si.ster,"  whom  she  answer'd  with 

all  calm. 
But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again, 
Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant 

field 
Approaching  thro'  the  darkness,  call'd  ; 

the  owls 
Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she  raixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  moaningsof  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a  little  song. 
And  call'd  her  song  "The  Song  of  Love 

and  Death," 
And  sang  it :   sweetly  could  she  make 

and  sing. 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


193 


"  Sweet  is  true  love  tlio'  given  iu  vain, 
in  vain  ; 
And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain : 
I  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  L 

"Love,  art  thou   sweet?  then  bitter 
death  must  be  ■ 
Love,  thou  art  bitter ;  sweet  is  death  to  me. 

0  Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

"Sweet  love,  tliat  seems  not  made  to 
fade  away. 
Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  love- 
less clay, 

1  know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

"  I  fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could 

be; 
I  needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for 

me  ; 
Call  and  I  follow,  I  follow  !  let  me  die." 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice, 

and  this. 
All  in  a  fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  lier  tower,  the  brothers  heard, 

and  thought 
With  .shuddering  "  Hark  the  Phantom 

of  the  hou.se 
That  ever  shrieks  before  a  death,"  and 

call'd 
The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and  fear 
Kan  to  her,  and  lo  !  the  blood-red  light  of 

dawn 
Flared  on  her  face,  she  .shrilling  "Let 

me  die  ! " 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we 
know 
Kepeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a  wonder  and  we  know  not  why, 
So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face  and  thout;i>t 
"Is  this  Elaine  ?"  till  back  the  maiden 

fell, 
Then  gave  a  languid  hand  to  each,  and  lay, 
-Speaking  a  still  good-morrow  with  her 

eyes. 
At  last  she  said  "  Sweet  brothers,  yester- 
night 
I  seem'd  a  curious  little  maid  again, 
As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 

woods. 
And  when  ye  used  to  take  me  with  the 

flood 
Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman's  boat. 
Only  ye  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it :  there  ye  fixt 


Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide. 
And  yet  1  cried  because  ye  would  not  pass 
Beyond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king. 
And  yet  ye  would  not ;  but  this  night 

I  dream' d 
That  I  was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 
And  then  I  said  '*  Now  shall  I  have  mj 

will "  : 
And  there  I  woke,  but  still  the  wish  re 

main'd. 
So  let  me  hence  that  I  may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
Until  I  find  the  palace  of  the  king. 
There  will  I  enter  in  among  them  all. 
And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at 

me. 
And  there  the  gi'eat  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at 

me  ; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a  thousand  farewells 

tome, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  w'eut  nor  bade  me 

one  : 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and 

my  love. 
And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me. 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me. 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I  shall  rest !  " 

"  Peace,"  said  her  father,  "0  my  child, 

ye  .seem 
Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to  go. 
So  far,  being  sick  ?  and  wherefore  would 

ye  look 
On  this  j)roud  fellow  again,  who  scorns  us 

all?" 

Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave 

and  move, 
And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say 
"  1  never  loved  him  :  an  I  meet  with  him 
I  care  not  howsoever  great  he  be, 
Then  will  I  strike  at  him  and  strike  hiii 

down. 
Give  me  good  fortune,  I  will  strike  hin'. 

dead. 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the 

house." 

To  which  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 
"  Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be 

wroth. 
Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot's  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the 

highest." 


194 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


"Highest?"    the    Father    answer' d, 

echoing  "  highest  ? " 
(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her) 

"nay, 
Daughter,  1  know  not  what  you  tall  the 

highest ; 
But  this  I  know,  for  all  the  people  know  it, 
He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  ojien  shame  : 
And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 
If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  ?  " 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat ; 
"  Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  anger:  these  are  slanders  :  never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 
He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a 

foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain  :  so  let  me 

pass, 
My  father,  howsoe'er  I  seem  to  you. 
Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God's  best 
And  gi'eatest,  tho'  my  love  had  no  return  : 
Yet,  seeing  ye  desire  your  child  to  live. 
Thanks,  but  ye  work  against  your  own 

desire  ; 
For  if  1  could  believe  the  things  ye  say 
I  should  but  die  the  sooner ;  wherefore 

cease, 
Sweetfather,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shiive  me  clean,  and 

die." 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come 

and  gone. 
She  with  a  face,  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven, 
Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A  lettei',  word  for  word  ;  and  when  he 

ask'd 
"  Is  itfor  Lancelot,  is  itfor  mydearlord  ? 
Then  will  1  bear  it  gladlj'  "  ;  she  replied, 
"  For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all 

the  world. 
But  I  myself  must  bear  it."     Then  he 

wrote 
riie  letter  she  devised  ;  which  being  writ 
And  folded,  "0  sweet  father,  tender  and 

true, 
Deny  me  not,"  she  said —  "ye  never  j'et 
Denied     my     fancies  —  this,     however 

strange, 
My  latest :  lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A  little  ere  I  die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it  ;  I  shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 
And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my 

heart. 
Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I  died 


For  Lancelct's  love,  and  deck  it  like  the 

Queen's 
For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  1  have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 
And  let  there  be  prepared  a  chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a  barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black, 
I  go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I  shall  speak  for  mine  owr 

self. 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Go  with  me,  he  cmi  steer  and  row,  and  he 
"Will  guide   me   to  that  palace,  to  the 

doors." 

She    ceased :     her  father    promised ; 

whereupon 
She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem'd 

her  death 
"Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 
But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the 

eleventh 
Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  tliat  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when   the  next  sun   brake  from 

underground, 
Then,  those  tAvo  brethren  slowly  with 

bent  brows 
Accom])anying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a  shadow  thro'  the  field,  that 

shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the 

barge, 
Pall'd  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite. 

lay. 
There   sat  the   lifelong  creature  of  the 

house. 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  .servitor,  on  deck, 
"Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  face. 
So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot 

took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  hei 

bed. 
Set  in  her  hand  a  lily,  o'er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings^ 
And  kiss'd  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying 

to  her 
"  Sister,  farewell  for  ever,"  and  again 
"Farewell,  sweet  sister,"  parted  all  id 

tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the 

dead 
Steer'd  by  the  dumb  went  upward  witi 

the  flood  — 


LANCELOT  AND  ELAINE. 


195 


In  her  right  hand  the  lilj',  in  her  left 
The  letter  —  all  her  bright  hair  stream- 
ing down  — 
And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in 

white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured 

face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho'  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace 

craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a  realm,  his  costly  gift. 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise 

and  blow. 
With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his 

own, 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds  :  for 

he  saw 
One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his   wish,    whereto    the    Qunen 

agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a  majesty 
She  might  have  seem'd  her  statue,  but 

that  he, 
Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss'd  her 

feet 
For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a  sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a  piece  of  pointed  lace. 
In  the  Queen's  shadow,  vibrate  on  the 

walls, 
And    parted,    laughing   in   his   courtly 

heart, 


All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side, 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur's  palace  toward  the 

stream. 
They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter' d, 

"  Queen, 
Lady,  my  liege,  in  whom  I  have  myjoy, 
Take,  what  I  had  not  won  except  for  you, 
Thesejewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making 

them 
An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth, 
Ornecklace  for  a  neck  to  which  the  swan's 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet's  :  these  are 

words  : 
Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I  sin 
In  speaking,  yet  0  grant  my  worship  of  it 
Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.    Such  sin 

in  words 
Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon  :  but,  my 

Queen, 
I  hear  of  rumors  flying  thro'  your  court. 
Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  m.ake  up  that  defect  :  let  rumors  be  : 
Wliendid  not  rumors  fly  ?  these,  as  I  trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 
I  may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe." 

While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turn'd  away, 

the  Queer. 

Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering  vine 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them  off, 

Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was 

green  ; 
Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  pas- 
sive hand 


196 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a  table  near  her,  and  replied. 

"  It  may  be,  I  am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  andwift 
This  good  is  in  it,  whatsoe'er  of  ill, 
It  can  be  broken  easier.     I  for  you 
This  many  a  year  have  done  despite  and 

wrong 
To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I  did  acknowledge   nobler.     What  are 

these  ? 
Diamonds  for  me  !  they  had  been  thrice 

their  worth 
Beingyourgift,  had  you  not  lost  your  own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver's.     Not  for  me  ! 
For  her  !  for  your  new  fancy.    Only  this 
Grant  me,  I  pray  you  :  have  your  joys 

apart. 
I  doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you 

keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful :  and  myself 
Would  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of 

courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur's  queen  I  move  and 

rule  : 
Socannot  speak  my  mind.  Anendtothis  ! 
A  strange  one  !  yet  I  take  it  with  Amen. 
So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her 

pearls  ; 
Deck  her  with  these  ;  tell  her  she  shines 

me  down  : 
An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the  Queen's 
Is  haggard,  or  a  necklace  for  a  neck 
O  as  much  fairer  —  as  a  faitli  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  —  hers 

not  mine  — 
Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himself. 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my 

will  — 
She  shall  not  have  them." 

Saying  which  she  seized, 
And,  thro'  the  casement  standing  wide 

for  heat. 
Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash'd,  and 

smote  the  stream. 
Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash'd,  as 

it  were. 
Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past 

away. 
Then  while  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half 

disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window 

ledge. 
Close imdemeath his  eyes,  and  rightacross 


Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  tha 

barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a  star  in  blackest  night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst 

away 
To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ;  and  the  barge. 
Onto  the  palace-doorway  sliding,  paused 
There   two  stood  arm'd,   and   kept  tht 

door  ;  to  whom. 
All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier, 
Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes 

that  ask'd 
"What  is  it  ? "  but  that  oarsman's  hag- 
gard face. 
As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy's  eye  from  broken 

rocks 
On  some  cliff-side,  appall'd  them,  and 

they  said, 
"He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  —  and 

she. 
Look  how  she  sleeps  —  the  Fairy  Queen, 

so  fair ! 
Yea,    but  how   pale  !   what  are   they? 

flesh  and  blood  ? 
Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy  land  ? 
For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die, 
But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land." 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King, 

the  King 
Came  girt  with  knights  :   then   turn'd 

the  tongueless  man 
From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and  rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors. 
So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid ; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 
Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  wonder'd 

at  her, 
And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her, 
And  last  the  Queen  herself  and  pitied  her  : 
But  Arthur  sj^ied  the  letter  in  her  hand. 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and   read  it  r 

this  was  all. 

"  Most  noble  lord.  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake, 
I,  sometime  call'd  the  maid  of  Astolat, 
Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  faiewell  of  j'ou, 
I  loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return, 
And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  mj 

death. 
And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 


LANCELOT  AND   ELAINE. 


197 


And  to  all  other  ladies,  I  make  moan. 
Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 
Pray  for  my  soid  thou  too,  iSir  Lancelot, 
As  thou  art  a  knight  peerless." 

Thus  he  read, 
And  ever  in  the  reading,  lonls  and  dames 
Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times, 
So  touch'd  were  they,  half-thinking  that 

her  lips, 
Who  bad  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them 

all; 
"My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  that 

hear. 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden's 

death 
Right  heavy  am  I  ;  for  good  she  was  and 

true, 
But  ioved  me  with  a  love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I  have  known. 
Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again  ; 
Not  at  my  years,   however  it  hold   in 

youth. 
I  s%vear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I 

gave 
No  cause,  not  willinglj'',  for  such  a  love  : 
To  this  I  call  my  friends  in  testimony. 
Her  brethren,  and  herfather,  who  himself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and 

use, 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature  :  what  1  could,  I  did. 
I  left  her  and  1  bade  her  no  farewell. 
Tho',  had  I  dreamt   the  damsel  would 

have  died, 
I  might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough 

use. 
And  help'd  her  from  herself." 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after 

storm) 
"  Ye  might  at   least  have  done  her  so 

much  grace, 
Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help'd  her  from 

her  death." 
He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and 

hers  fell, 
He  adding, 

"Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save   that  1  wedded  her,  which   could 

not  be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro'  the  world, 

she  ask'd ; 


It  could  not  be.     I  told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  dark- 
en down 
To  rise  hereafter  in  a  stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her — then 

would  1, 
More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded,  poor, 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow 

seas. 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance  :  more  than 

this 
I  could  not ;  this  she  would  not,  and  she 
died." 

He  2)ausing,  Arthur  answer'^'.,  ' '  0  my 

knight. 

It  will  be  to  thy  worship,  as  my  knight, 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table  Round, 

To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully." 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all 
the  realm 
Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The  marshall'd  order  oftheir  Table  Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  se«> 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown, 
Nor  nieaidy,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies, 
And    mass,   and  rolling   music,    like   a 

Queen. 
And   when    tire   knights   had   laid   her 

comely  head 
Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings. 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,   "Let 

her  tomb 
Be  costly,  and  iier  image  thereupon. 
And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 
And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
Forall  true  hearts  be  blazon'donher  tomb 
In  letters  gold  and  azure  ! "  which  was 

wrought 
Thereafter  ;  but  when  now  the  lords  and 

dames 
And  people,  from  the  high  door  stream- 
ing, brake 
Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who    mark'd    Sir    Lancelot    where    he 

moved  apart. 
Drew  near,  and sigh'd  in  passing  "Lance- 
lot, 
Forgive  me  ;  mine  was  jealousy  in  love." 
He  answer'd   with   his   eyes   upon   the 

ground, 
"That   is   love's    curse;    pass  on,    my 

Queen,  forgiven." 
But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy  browg 


198 


LANCELOT   AND   ELAINE. 


Appi'oach'd  him,  and  with  full  affection 

flung 
One  arm  about  his  neck,  and  spake  and 

said 

"Lancelot,    my    Lancelot,    thou    in 

whom  I  have 
Most  love  and  most  affiance,  for  I  know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side. 
And  many  a  time  have  watched  thee  at 

the  tilt 
Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised 

knight, 
And  let  the  younger  and  unskill'd  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name. 
And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a  man 
Made   to   be   loved  ;    but  now  I  would 

to  God, 
For  the  wild  people  say  v/ild  things  of 

thee, 
Thou  couldst  have  loved   this  maiden, 

shaped,  it  seems. 
By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 
If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair. 
Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a 

lonely  man 
Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  tliy  name  and  fame, 
My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 

Lake." 

Then  answer'd   Lancelot,   "Fair   she 

Avas,  my  King, 
Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  yoiir  knights  to  be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  A\ant  an  eye. 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  want  a 

heart  — 
yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not 

be  bound." 

"Free  love,  so   bound,  were   freest," 

said  the  King. 
°'  Letlovebefree ;  free  loveisfor  the  best : 
^.nd,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of 

death. 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a  love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a  loveliness  ?  yet  thee 
She  fail'd  to  bind,  tho'  being,  as  1  think, 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I  know." 

And  Lancelot  answer'd  nothing,  but 
he  went, 
And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove,  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 


And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  mov^ 

ing  down, 
Far-off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  himself  "Ah  simple  heart  and 

sweet. 
Ye   loved  me,    damsel,    surely   with  a 

love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's.     Pray  foi 

thy  soul  ? 
Ay,  that  will  1.     Farewell  too  —  now  at 

last  — 
Farewell,  fair  lily.     '  Jealousy  in  love '  ? 
Not  rather  dead  love's  harsh  heir,  jealous 

pride  ? 
Queen,  if  I  gi-ant  the  jealousy  as  of  love, 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and 

fame 
Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a  love  that  wanes  ? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  to 

me? 
Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a 

reproach, 
Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
Stole   from  his  mother  —  as  the   story 

runs  — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and 

morn 
She  kiss'd  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my 

child, 
As  a  king's  son,  and  often  in  her  anns 
She  bai'e  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would  she  had  drown'd  me  in  it,  where'er 

it  be! 
For  what  am  I  ?    what  profits  me  my 

name 
Of  greatest  knight  ?    I  fought  for  it,  and 

have  it : 
Pleasure  to  have  it,  none  ;  to  lose  it,  pain ; 
Now  grown  a  part  of  me  :  but  Avhat  use 

in  it  ? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin 

known  ? 

0  r  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great  ? 
Alas  for  Arthur's  greatest  knight,  a  man 
Not  after  Arthur's  heart  !  I  needs  must 

break 
These  bonds  that  so  defame  me  :  not  with- 
out 
She  wills  it :  would  I,  if  she  will'd  it  ?  nay, 
Who  knows  ?  but  if  I  would  not,  then 
may  God, 

1  pray  him,  send  a  sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far, 
And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere, 
Among   the  tumbled  fragments  of  tho 

^hills." 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


199 


So  groan'fl  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful 
pain, 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a  holy  man. 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 

f'uoM  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess 

done 
In  tournament  or  tilt.  Sir  Percivale, 
Whom  Artluir  and  his  knighthood  call'd 

The  Pure, 
Had  pass'd  into  the  silent  life  of  prayer. 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms  ;  and  leaving  for 

the  cowl 
The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long  after, 

died. 

And  one,  a  fellow-monk  among  the  rest, 
Anibrosius,  loved  liim  much  beyond  the 

rest, 
And  honor'd  him,  and  wrought  into  his 

heart 
A  way  by  love  that  waken'd  love  within, 
To  answer  that  which  came  :  and  as  they 

sat 
Beneath  a  world-old  yew-tree,  darkening 

half 
The  cloisters,  on  a  gustful  Apiil  morn 
That  puff'd  the  swaying  branches  into 

smoke 
Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when  he  died, 
The  monk  Ambrosius  question'd  Perci- 
vale : 

"0  brother,  1  have  seen  this  yew -tree 

smoke. 
Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a  hundred 

years  : 
Forneverhave  I  known  the  world  without, 
Noreverstray'dlieyomlthepale :  but  thee. 
When  first  thou  camest  — such  a  courtes)' 
Spake  thro'  the  limbs  and  in  the  voice  — 

I  knew 
For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur's  hall ; 
Forgood  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to  coins. 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one  of  you 
Stamp'd  with  the  image  of  the  King  ;  and 

now 
Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the  Table 

Round, 
My  brother  ?  was  it  earthly  passion  crost  ? " 

"Nay,"  said  the  knight  ;  "for  no  such 
passion  mine. 
But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Hoi}'  Grail 


Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rivalries, 
And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and  s^iarkle 

out 
Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  womer 

watch 
Who  wins,   who   falls  ;    and  waste  the 

spiritual  strength 
Within  us,  better  otler'd  up  to  Heaven.'' 

To    whom    the   monk:     "The    Holj 

Grail  !  —  I  trust 
We  are  green  in  Heaven's  eyes  ;  but  here 

too  much 
We  moulder  — as  to  things  without   I 

mean  — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a  guest  of 

ours. 
Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory, 
But  spake  with  such  a  sadness  and  so  low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said.  What 

is  it  ': 
The  phantom  of  a  cup  that  comes  and 

goes  ?" 

"Nay,  monk  !  what  phantom?"  an- 

swer'd  Percivale. 
' '  The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which  our 

Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  .sad  supper  with  his  own. 
This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aromat  — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the  dead 
W^ent  wandering  o'er  Moriah  —  the  good 

saint, 
Arimathajan  Joseph,  journeying  brought 
To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter  thorn 
Blossoms  at  C'hristmas,  mindful  of  our 

Lord. 
And  there  awhile  it  bode  ;  and  if  a  man 
Could  touch  orseo  it,  he  was  heal'datonce, 
Byfaith,  ofallhisills.     But  then  the  time£ 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  disap 

pear'd." 

To  whom  the  monk  :   "From  our  old 

books  I  know 
That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 
And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arviragus, 
Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to 

build  ; 
And  there  he  built  with  wattles  from  the 

marsh 
A  little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 
For  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours,  but 

seem 
Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I  have  read. 
But  who  first.saw  the  holy  thing  to-day  ?" 


200 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


"A  won'an,"  answer'd  Percivale,  "a 

nun. 
And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from  nie 
Than  sister  ;  and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the  stone, 
A  hoi}'  maid  ;  tho'  never  maiden  glow'd, 
But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maidenhood, 
With  such  a  fervent  flame  of  human  love. 
Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced  and 

shot 
Only  to  holy  things  ;  to  prayer  and  praise 
She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms.     And 

yet, 

Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the  Court, 
Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table  Round, 
And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulterous 

race, 
Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray'd  aad  fasted  all  the 

more. 

"And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins, 

or  what 
Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for  sin, 
A  man  wellnigh  a  hundred  winters  old, 
Sjjake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 
A  legend  handed  down  thro'  five  or  six, 
And  each  of  these  a  hundred  winters  old. 
From  our  Lord's  time.     And  when  King 

Arthur  made 
His  Table  Round,  and  all  men's  hearts 

became 
Clean  for  a  season,  surely  he  had  thought 
That  now   the  Holy  Grail  would  come 

again  ; 
But  sin  broke  out.     Ah,  Christ,  that  it 

would  come, 
And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wicked- 
ness ! 
'  0  Father ! '  asked  the  maiden,  '  might 

it  come 
To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ? '    '  Nay,' 

said  he, 
'I   know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as 

snow.' 
And  so  she  pray'd  and  fasted,  till  the  sun 
Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro'  her,  and 

I  thought 
She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when  I 

saw  her. 

"  For  on  a  day  she  sent  to  speak  with 

me. 
And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold  her 

eyes 
Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beautiful. 
Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  wonderful. 


Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 

And  'Omy  brother,  Percivale,'  she  said, 

'  Sweet  brother,   1  have  seen  the  Holy 

Grail  : 
For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  1  heard  asound 
As  of  a  silver  horn  from  o'er  the  hills 
Blown,  and  1  thought,  "  It  is  not  Arthur's 

use 
To  hunt  by  moonlight  "  ;  andthe  slendei 

sound 
As  from  a  distance  beyond  distance  grew 
Coming  upon  me  —  0  never  harp  noi 

horn. 
Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or  touch 

with  hand, 
Was  like  that  music  as  it  came  ;  and  then 
Stream'd  thro'  my  cell  a  cold  and  silver 

beam. 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy 

Grail, 
Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if  alive. 
Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were  dyed 
With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall  ; 
And  then  the  music  faded,  andthe  Grail 
Pass'd,  and  the  beam  decay 'd,  and  from 

the  walls 
The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 
So  now  the  Holy  "Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and 

pray. 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fast  and 

pray. 
That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be  seen 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  world  be 

heal'd. ' 

' '  Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I  spake 
of  this 
To  all  men  ;  and  myself  fasted  and  pray'd 
Always,  and  many  among  us  many  a  week 
Fasted  and  pray'd  even  to  the  uttermost, 
Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  would  be. 

"And  one  there  M'as  among  us,  ever 
moved 

Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 

'  God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beau- 
tiful," 

Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb'd  him  knight ; 
and  none, 

Inso  youngyouth,  was  evermade  aknight 

Till  Galahad  ;  and  this  Galahad,  when 
he  heard 

My  sister's  vision,  fiU'd  me  with  amaze ; 

His  eyes  became  so  like  her  own,  they 
seem'd 

Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more  than  L 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


201 


•'  Sister  or  brother  none  had  he  ;  but 

some 
Call'd  him  a  son  of  Lancelot,  and  some 

said 
Begotten   by   enchantment  —  chatterers 

they, 
Like  birds  of  passage  piping  np  and  down, 
That  gape  for  Hies  —  we  know  not  whence 

they  come  ; 
For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly  lewd  ? 

"  But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden  shore 

away 
Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth 

of  hair 
"Which  made  a  silken  mat-work  for  her 

feet  ; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and  long 
A  strong  sword-belt,  and  wove  with  silver 

thread 
And  crimson  in  the  belt  a  strange  device, 
A  crimson  gi'ail  within  a  silver  beam  ; 
And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and  bound 

it  on  him, 
Saying,  '  My  knight,  my  love,  my  knight 

of  heaven, 

0  thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with 

mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my 

belt. 
Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I  have 

seen, 
And  break  thro'  all,  till  one  will  crown 

thee  king 
Farin  the  spiritual  city' :  and  as  she  spake 
She  sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her  eyes 
Thro'  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and  laid 

her  mind 
On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

"Then   came   a  year  of   miracle:    0 
brother, 

1  n  our  great  hall  there  btood  a  vacant  chair, 
Fashion'd  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away. 
And  carven  with  strange  figures  ;  and  in 

and  out 
The  figures,  like  a  serpent,  ran  a  scroll 
Of  letters  in  a  tongue  no  man  could  read. 
And  Merlin  call'd  it  'The  Siege  perilous,' 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill;    'for  there,' 

he  said, 
'No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose 

himself  : 
And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ;  but  he, 
Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin's  doom, 
Cried,  '  If  I  lose  myself  I  save  myself ! ' 


"Then  on  a  summer  night  it  came  tt 

pass. 
While  the  gi-eat  banquet  lay  along  the 

hall, 
That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Merlin's 

chair. 

"And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat,  w^c 

heard 
A  cracking  and  a  riving  of  the  roofs. 
And  rending,  and  a  blast,  and  overhead 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a  cry. 
And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the  hal] 
A  beam  of  light  seven  times  more  cleai 

than  day  : 
And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy 

Grail 
All  over  cover'd  with  a  luminous  cloud, 
And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and  if 

past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow's  face 
As  in  a  glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose, 
And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb  men 
Stood,  till  I  found  a  voice  and  sware  a 


"I  sware  a  vow  before  them  all,  that  I, 
Because  I  had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would 

ride 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day  in  quest  of  it, 
Until  I  found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ;  and  Galahad  sware  the 

vow, 
And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot's  cousin, 

sware. 
And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among 

the  knights. 
And  Gawain  sware,  and  louder  than  tha 

rest." 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius,  ask> 
ing  him, 
"What  said  the  King  ?  Did  Arthur  takt; 
the  vow  ? " 

"Nay,  for  my  lord,"  said  Percivalej 

"the  king. 
Was  not  in  hall  :  for  early  that  same  day. 
Scaped  thro'  a  cavern  from  a  bandit  hold. 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the  hall 
Crying  on  help  :  for  all  her  shining  hair 
Was  smear'd  with  earth,  and  either  milky 

arm 
Red-rent  ■with  hooks  of  bramble,  and  all 

she  wore 
Torn  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is  torn 
In  tempest  :  so  the  king  arose  and  went 


202 


THE   HOLY  GRAIL. 


To  smoke  tlie  scandalous  hive  of  those 

wild  bees 
That   made   such  honey  in   his   realm. 

Howbeit 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw, 
Keturning  o'er  the  plain  that  then  began 
To  darken  \inder  Camelot ;  whence  the 

king 
Look'd  up,  calling  aloud,  '  Lo  there  !  the 

roofs 
Of  our  great  hall  are  rolled  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 
Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by 

the  bolt.' 
For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of  ours. 
As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his  knights 
Feasted,    and   as    the    stateliest    under 

heaven. 

"0  brother,  hadyouknownourmighty 

hall, 
Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long  ago  ! 
For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 
And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof. 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire. 
By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rushing 

brook. 
Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin 

built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set 

betwixt 
With  many  a  mystic  symbol,  gird  the 

hall : 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying  men, 
And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying  beasts, 
And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect  men, 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  growing 

wings. 
And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  madeby  Merlin,  witha  crown. 
And  peak'd  wings  pointed  to  the  Northern 

Star. 
And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and  the 

crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold, 

and  flame 
At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields. 
Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes, 
Behold  it,  crying,  '  We  have  still  a  king.' 

"And,  brother,  had  you  known  our 

hall  within. 
Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all  the 

lands  ! 
Where    twelve  great    windows    blazon 

Arthur's  wars. 
And  all  the  liglitthat  falls  upon  the  board 


Streams  tliro'  the  twelve  great  battles  oi 

our  King. 
Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern 

end. 
Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of  mount 

raid  meie. 
Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand,  Excalibur. 
And  also  one  to  the  Avest,  and  countei 

to  it. 
And  blank  :    and  who  shall  blazon  it  ? 

when  and  how  ?  — 
0  there,  perchance,  when  all  oui  wars 

are  done. 
The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast  away. 

"  So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rode  the 

King, 
In  horrorlestthe  work  by  Merlin  wrought. 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  vanish, 

wrapt 
In  unreinorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 
And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I  glanced,  and  saw 
The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all : 
And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the  hold, 

their  arms 
Hack'd,  and  their  foreheads  grimed  with 

smoke,  and  sear'd, 
Follow'd,  and  in  iimongbright  faces,  ours, 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest :  and  then  the 

King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  '  Percivale, ' 
( Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult — some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting),  '  what  is 

this  ? ' 

"0  brother,  when  I  told  him  what 

liad  chanced, 
My  sister's  A'ision,  and  the  rest,  his  face 
Darken'd,  as  I  have  seen  it  more  than 

once. 
When  some  brave  deed  seem'd  to  be  done 

in  vain. 
Darken  ;  and  '  Woe  is  me,  my  knights,' 

he  cried, 
'  Had  I  been  here,  ye  had  not  sworn  the 

vow.' 
Bold   was  mine  answer,   'Had  thyseli 

been  here, 
My  King,  thou   wouldst   have   sworn.' 

'  Yea,  yea, '  .said  he, 
'  Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen  the 

Grail  ? ' 

"'Nay,  Lord,   I  heard  the  sound,  I 
saw  the  light. 
But  since  I  did  not  see  the  Holy  Thing, 
I  sware  a  vow  to  follow  it  till  I  saw.' 


THE  HOLY  GKAIL. 


203 


"Then  when  he  asked  us,  knight  by 

knight,  if  any 
Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as  one : 
'  Nay,  Lord,  and  therefore  have  we  sworn 

our  vows.' 

" '  Lo   now,'   said   Arthur,   'have  ye 
seen  a  cloud  ? 
What  go  ye  into  the  wilderness  to  see  ? ' 

' '  Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and 
in  a  voice 
Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur,  call'd, 
'  But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
I  saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a  cry  — 
0  Galahad,  and  0  Galahad,  follow  me.' 

"'Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,'  .said  the 
King,  '  for  sucli 
As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a  sign  — 
Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than  she  — 
A  sign  to  maim  this  Order  which  I  made. 
But  you,  that  follow  but  the  leader's  bell' 
(Brother,  the  King  was  hard  upon  his 

knights) 
'  Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song. 
And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb  will 

sing- 
Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  overborne 
Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  younger 

knight, 
Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 
Till  overboi'ne  by  one,  he  learns — and  ye, 
What  are  ye  ?   Galahads  ?  —  no,  nor  Per- 

civales ' 
(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range 

me  close 
After  Sir  Galahad)  ;  '  nay,'  said  he,  'but 

men 
With   strength   and   will   to   right   the 

wrong'd,  of  power 
To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  Wolence  flat. 
Knights   that   in   twelve   great    battles 

splash' d  and  d5'ed 
The   strong  White    Horse   in   his   own 

heathen  blood  — 
But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind  will 

see. 
Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,   being 

made : 
Yet  —  for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my 

realm 
Pass  thro'  this  hall  —  how  often,  0  my 

knights. 
Your  places  being  vacant  at  my  side. 
This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come  and  go 


Unchallenged,  while  you  follow  wander- 
ing fires 
Lost  in  the  (|uagmire  ?     Many  of  j^ou, 

yea  most. 
Return  no  more  :  ye  think  I  show  myself 
Too  dark  a  prophet  :  come  now,  let  us 

meet 
The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one  full 

field 
Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more  the 

King, 
Before  you  leave  him  for  this  Quest,  may 

count 
The    yet-unbroken   strength   of  all   his 

knights. 
Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he  made.' 

"So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from 

under  ground, 
All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 
And  clash'd  in  such  a  tourney  and  so  full, 
So  many  lances  broken  —  never  yet 
Had  Camelot  seen  the  like,  since  Arthur 

came. 
And  I  myself  a)ul  Galahad,  for  a  strength 
Was  m  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So  many  knights  that  all  the  people  cried, 
And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their 

heat, 
Sffouting '  Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Percivale ! ' 

"  But  when  the  next  day  brake  from 

under  ground  — 
0  brother,  had  you  known  our  Camelot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 
The  King  himself  had  fears  that  it  would 

fall, 
So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim  ;  for  where 

the  roofs 
Totter'd  toward  each  other  in  the  sky, 
Metforeheads  all  along  the  street  of  those 
SVho  watch'd  us  pass ;  and  lower,  and 

where  the  long 
Rich  galleries,  ladj^-laden,  weigh'd  the 

necks 
Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls. 
Thicker  than  drops  from  thunder,  show- 
ers of  flowers 
Fell  as  we  past  ;  and  men  and  boys  astride 
On  wyvern,  lion,  dragon,  griflin,  swan. 
At  all  the  corners,  named  us  each  by  name. 
Calling  '  God  speed  ! '  but  in  the  street 

below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich  and 

poor 
Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could  hardly 

speak 


204 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


For  grief,  and  in  the  middle  street  the 
Queen, 

Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail'd  andshriek'd 
aloud, 

'This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our 
sins. ' 

And  then  we  reach'd  the  weirdly-sculp- 
tured gate, 

Where  Arthur's  wars  were  render'd  mys- 
tically, 

And  thence  departed  every  one  his  way. 

"And  I  was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and 

thought 
Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the  lists. 
How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down 

the  knights. 
So  many  and  famous  names ;  andneveryet 
Had  heaven  appear'd  so  blue,  nor  earth 

so  green, 
For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I  knew 
That  1  should  light  upon  the  Holy  Grail. 

' '  Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of  our 

King, 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering 

fires, 
Came  like   a  driving  gloom  across  my 

mind. 
Then  every  evil  word  I  had  spoken  once, 
And  ever}'  evil  thought  I  had  thought 

of  old, 
And  every  evil  deed  I  ever  did, 
Awoke  and  cried,  *  This  Quest  is  not  for 

thee.' 
And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I  found  myself 
Alone,  and  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns, 
And  I  was  thirsty  even  unto  death  ; 
And  I,  too,  cried,  '  This  Quest  is  not  for 

thee.' 

"And  on  I  rode,  and  when  I  thought 
my  thirst 

Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and  then 
a  brook. 

With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisp- 
ing white 

Play'd  ever  back  upon  the  slopiiig  wave. 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye  ;  and  o'er  the 
brook 

Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the  brook 

Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns.  '  I  will  rest 
here,' 

I  said,  '  I  am  not  woi'thy  of  the  Quest '  ; 

But  even  Avhile  I  drank  the  brook,  and 
ate 

The  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at  once 


Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone, 
And  thirsting,  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

' '  And  then  behold  a  woman  at  a  dooi 
Spinning ;  and  fair  the  house  whereby 

she  sat. 
And  kind  the  woman's  eyes  andinnocent, 
And  all  her  bearing  gracious  ;  and  she 

lose 
Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who 

should  say, 
'  Rest  here '  ;  but  when  I  touched  her, 

lo  !  she,  too. 
Fell    into   dust   and   nothing,   and   the 

house 
Became  no  better  than  a  broken  shed, 
And  in  it  a  dead  babe  ;  and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I  was  left  alone. 

"  And  on  I  rode,  and  greater  was  my 

thirst. 
Then  flash'd  a  yellow  gleam  across  the 

world, 
And  where  it  smote  the  ploughshare  in  the 

field. 
The  ploughman  left  his  ploughing,  and 

fell  down 
Before  it ;  where  it  glitter'd  on  her  pail. 
The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  fell 

down 
Before  it,  and  I  knew  not  why,  but  thought 
'  The  sun  is  rising,'  tho'  the  sunhad  risen. 
Then  was  I  ware  of  one  that  on  me  moved 
In  golden  armor  with  a  crown  of  gold 
About  a  casque  all  jewels  ;  and  his  horse 
In  golden  armor  jewell'd  everywhere  : 
And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  me 

blind  ; 
And  seem'd  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the 

woi'ld, 
Being  .so  huge.      But  when  I  thought  he 

meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo  !  he,  too, 
Opened  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he 

came. 
And  up  1  went  and  touch'd  him,  and  he. 

too. 
Fell  into  dust,  and  1  was  left  alone 
And  wearying  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

' '  And  I  rode  on  and  found  a  mighty 

hill. 
And  on  the  top,  a  city  wail'd  :  the  spires 
Prick'd   with  incredible  pinnacles   into 

heaven. 
And  by  the  gateway  stirr'd  a  crowd  ;  and 

these 


THE  HOLY   GRAIL. 


205 


Dried  to  me  climbing,   'Welcome,  Per- 

civale ! 
Thou  mightiest  and  thou  purest  among 

men  ! ' 
And  glad  was  I  and  clomb,  but  found  at 

top 
Noman,  noranyvoice.   And  thence  I  past 
Far  thro'  a  ruinous  city,  and  I  saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt   there  ;    but 

there  I  found 
Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 
'  Where  is  that  goodly  company,'  said  I, 
'  That  so   cried  out  upon  me  ? '  and  he 

had 
Scarce  any  voice  to  answer,  and  yet  gasp'd 
'  Whence  and  what  art  thou  ? '  and  even 

as  he  spoke 
Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear'd,  and  I 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried  in 

grief, 
'  Lo,  if  1  tind  the  Holy  Grail  itself 
And  touch  it,  it  wiU  crumble  into  dust.' 

"  And  thence  I  dropt  into  a  lowly  vale, 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where  the 

vale 
Was  lowest,  found  a  chapel  and  thereby 
A  holy  hermit  in  a  hermitage. 
To  whom  I  told  my  phantoms,  and  he  said  : 

"  '  0  son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility, 
The  higliest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 
For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made 

Himself 
Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
"Take  thou  my  robe,"  she  said,  "for  all 

is  thine," 
And  all  her  form  shone  forth  vnt\\  sud- 
den light 
So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and  she 
Follow'd  liim  down,  and  like  a  fij'ing  star 
Led  on  tliegray-hair'd  wisdom  of  the  east ; 
But  her  thou  hast  not  known  :  for  what 

is  tliis 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and  thy 

sins  ? 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thyself 
As  Galaliad.'     When  the  hermit  made 

an  end. 
In  silver  armor  suddenly  Galahad  shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  eriter'd,  and  we  knelt  in 

prayer. 
And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burning 

thirst 
And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I  saw 
The  holy  elements  alone  ;  but  he  : 


'  Saw  ye  no  more  ?  I,  Galahad,  saw  the 

Grail, 
The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the  shrine : 
I  saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a  child 
That  smote  itself  into  tlie  bread,  and  went ; 
And  hither  am  I  come  ;  and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sistertaught  uje  first  to  see, 
Tliis  Holy  Thing,  fail'd  from  my  side; 

nor  come 
Cover' d,  but  moving  with  me  night  and 

day, 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  slidingdown  the  blacken'd 

marsh 
Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain  top 
Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere  below 
Blooil-red.     And  in  the  strength  of  this 

I  rode, 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere, 
And  past  thro'  Pagan  realms,  and  made 

them  mine, 
And  clasli'd  with  Pagan  hordes,  and  bore 

them  down, 
And  broke  thro'  all,  and  in  the  strength 

of  this 
Come  victor.   But  my  time  is  hard  at  hand. 
And  hence  I  go  ;  and  one  will  crown  me 

king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city  ;  and  come  thou, 

too. 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I  go.' 

"  While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye,  dwell- 
ing on  mine. 
Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I  grew 
One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  believed. 
Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane,  we 
went. 

"  There  rose  a  hill  that  none  but  man 

could  climb, 
Scarr'd  with  a  hundred  wintry  water- 
courses — 
Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain'd  it, 

storm 
Round  us  and  death  ;  for  every  moment 

glanced 
His  silver  arras  and  gloom'd  :  so  quick 

and  thick 
The  lightnings  here  and  there   to  left 

and  right 
Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us, 

dead. 
Yea,  rotten  with  ahundred  years  of  death, 
Sprang  into  fire  :  and  at  the  base  we  found 
On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
A  great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil  smell, 


206 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


Fart  black,  part  whiten'd  with  the  bones 

of  men, 
Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient  king 
Had  built  a  way,   wliere,   link'd   with 

many  a  bridge, 
A  thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great  sea. 
And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge  by 

bridge. 
And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang   into   fire  and  vanish'd,   tho'   I 

yearn' d 
To  follow  ;  and  thrice  above  him  all  the 

heavens 
Open'd  and  blazed  with  thunder  such  as 

seem'd 
Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God :  and  first 
At  once  I  saw  him  far  on  the  great  sea, 
In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear  ; 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a  luminous 

cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the  boat 
If  boat  it  were — •  I-saw  not  whence  it  came. 
And  when  the  heavens  open'd  and  blazed 

again 
Roaring,  I  saw  him  like  a  silver  star  — 
And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 
Become  a  living  creature  clad  with  wings  ? 
And  o'er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  I'ose,  a  joy  to  me, 
For  now  I  knew  the  veil  had  been  with- 
drawn. 
Then  in  a  moment  when  they  blazed  again 
Opening,  I  saw  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  beyond 

the  star 
I  saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires 
And  gateways  in  a  glory  like  one  pearl  — 
No  larger,  tho'  the  goal  of  all  the  saints  — 
Strike  from  the  sea  ;  and  from  the  star 

there  shot 
A  rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 
Dwelt,  and  I  knew  it  was  the  Holy  Grail, 
Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall 

see. 
Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drowning 

the  deep. 
And  how  my  feet  recross'd  the  deathful 

ridge 
Nomemoryin  me  lives  ;  butthatltouch'd 
The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I  know  ;  and 

thence 
Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy  man. 
Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more, 

return'd 
To  whence  I  came,  the  gate  of  Arthur's 

wars.  ' 


"  0  brother,"  ask'd  Ambrosius,  —  '•  fol 

in  sooth 
These  ancient  books  —  and  they  wouW 

win  thee  —  teem. 
Only  I  find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 
With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to  these. 
Not  all  unlike  ;  which  oftentime  1  read. 
Who  read  but  on  my  breviary  with  ease 
Till  my  head  swims  ;  and  then  go  fortl 

and  pass 
Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so  close,, 
And  almost  plaster'd  like  a  martin's  nest 
To  these  old  walls  —  and  mingle  with 

our  folk  ; 
And  knowing  every  honest  face  of  theirs, 
As  well  as  ever  .shepherd  kncAV  his  sheep, 
And  every  homely  secret  in  their  hearts. 
Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old  wives. 
And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings,  lyings- 

in. 
And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the 

place. 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a,  league  away: 
Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when  they 

rise, 
Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the  mar- 
ket-cross. 
Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world 

of  mine. 
Yea,  evenintheirhensandin their  eggs — 
0  brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad 
Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  youi 

(piest. 
No  man,  no  woman  ? " 

Then,  Sir  Percivale  i 
' '  All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a  vow, 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.     0,  my 

brother. 
Why  wiltthou  .shame  me  to  confess  to  thee 
How  far  I  falter'd  from  my  quest  and  vow  1 
For  after  I  had  lain  so  many  nights 
A  bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and  snake, 
In  grass  and  burdock,  1  was  changed  tc 

wan 
Andmeagie,  and  the  vision  had  not  come. 
And  then  I  chanced  upon  a  goodly  town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle  of 

it  ; 
Tliither  I  made,  and  there  was  I  disarm'd 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower  : 
But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the  one, 
Biother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had  ever 
Made  my  heart  leap  ;  for  when  I  moved 

of  old 
A  slender  page  about  her  father's  hall, 


THE    HOLY   GRAIL. 


207 


Anil  she  a  slemlor  maiden,  all  my  heart 
Went  after  her  with  longing :  yet  we  twain 
Had  never  kiss'd  a  kiss,  or  vow'd  a  vow. 
And  now  I  came  upon  her  once  again, 
Andonehad  wedded  her,  and  he  wasdead, 
And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state 

were  hers. 
And  while  I  tarried,  every  day  she  set 
A  hanquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me  ;  for  all  her  longing  and  her  will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old  ;  till  one  fair 

morn, 
I  walking  to  and  fro  beside  a  stream 
That   tl;ish'd  across  her  orchard  under- 
neath 
Her  castle-walls,  she  stole  upon  my  walk, 
Andcallinginethe  greatest  of  all  knights, 
Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss'd  me  the  tirst 

time. 
And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to  me. 
Then    I    remember'd   Arthur's   warning 

word, 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering 

fires. 
And  the  Quest  faded  in  my  heart.     Anon, 
The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to  me, 
With  supplication  both   of  knees  and 

tongue  : 
'  We  have  heard  of  thee  :  thou  art  our 

greatest  knight, 
Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe  : 
Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us. 
And  thou  slialt  be  as  Arthur  in  our  land.' 
Ome,  my  brother  !  but  one  night  my  vow 
Burnt  me  within,  so  that  I  rose  and  lied. 
But  wail'd   and  wept,  and  hated  mine 

own  self. 
And  ev'n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but  her  ; 
Then  after  I  was  join'd  with  Calahad 
Cared  not   for   her,  nor  anything  upon 

earth." 

Then  said  the  monk,  "  Poor  men,  when 

yule  is  cold, 
M'Tst  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 
And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 
Ever  so  little  ;  yea,  and  blest  be  Heaven 
That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor  house 

of  ours. 
Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard,  to 

warm 
My  cold  heart  with  a  friend  :  but  0  the 

pit.V 
To  find  thine  own  first  love  once  more  — 

to  hold. 
Hold  her  a  wealthy  bride  within  thine 

arms, 


Or  all  but  hold,  and  then  — cast  her  aside, 
Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a  weed. 
For  we  that  want  the  warmth  of  double 

life, 
We   that   are  plagued  with  dreams  of 

something  sweet 
Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a  life  so  rich,  — ■ 
Ah,  blessed  Lord,  I  speak  too  earthlywise. 
Seeing  I  never  stray'd  beyond  the  cell, 
But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his  earth. 
With  earth  about  him  everywhere,  despite 
All  fast  and  penance.  Saw  ye  none  be.side, 
None  of  your  knights  ? " 

"Yea  so,"  said  Percivale  j 
"  One  night  my  pathway  swerving  east, 

I  saw 
The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir  Bors 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon  : 
And  toward  him  spurr'd  and  hail'd  him, 

and  he  me, 
And  each  made  joy  of  either ;  then  he 

ask'd, 
'  Where  is  he  ?   hast  thou  seen  him  — 

Lancelot  ? '     '  Once,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,   'he  dash'd  across 

me  —  mad. 
And  maddening  what  he  rode  :  and  when 

I  cried, 
"  Eldest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a  quest 
So  holy?"  Lancelot  shouted,  "Stay  me 

not ! 
I   have  been  the  sluggard,    and  I   ride 

apace. 
For  now  there  is  a  lion  in  the  way." 
So  vanish'd.' 

"Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softh',  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot, 
Because  his  former  madness,  once  the  talk 
And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  return'd  ; 
For  Lancelot's  kith  and  kin  so  worship 

him 
That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them  ;  to  Bors 
Beyond  the  rest :  he  well  had  been  content 
Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might  have 

seen. 
The  Holy  Cup  of  healing  ;  and,  indeed, 
Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and  love. 
Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy  Quest  ; 
If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well :  if  not. 
The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands  of 

heaven. 

"  And  then,  with  small  adventure  met, 
Sir  Bors 
Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the  realm, 


208 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


And  found  a  people  there  among  their 

crags, 
Our  race  and  blood,  a  remnant  that  were 

left 
Paynim  amid  their  circles,  and  the  stones 
They  pitch  uj)  straight  to  heaven  :  and 

their  wise  men 
Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which  can 

trace 
The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scoff'd 

at  him 
And  this  high  Quest  as  at  a  simple  thing  : 
Told  him  he  foUow'd  —  almost  Arthur's 

words  — 
A  mocking  tire  :  'what  other  fire  than  he, 
"Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the  blossom 

blows. 
And  the  sea  rolls,  and  all  the  world  is 

warm'd  ? ' 
And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the 

rough  crowd, 
Hearing  he  had  a  difference  with  their 

priests. 
Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged  him 

into  a  cell 
Of  great  piled  stones  ;  and  lying  bounden 

there 
In  darkness  thro'  innumerable  hours 
He   heard  the   hollow-ringing   heavens 

sweep 
Over  him,  till  by  miracle  — what  else  ? — 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a  great  stone  slipt  and  fell. 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move  :  and  thro' 

the  gap 
Glimmer'd   the    streaming   scud :    then 

came  a  night 
Still  as  the  day  was  loud ;  and  thro'  the  gap 
The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur's  Table 

Round  — 
For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because  they 

roll 
Thro'  such  ?  round  in  heaven,  we  named 

the  stars. 
Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our  king  — 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar 

friends. 
In  on  him  shone,  '  And  then  to  me,  to 

me,' 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,   'beyond  all  hopes 

of  mine, 
Who  scarce  had  pray'd  or  ask'd  it  for 

myself  — 
Across  the  seven  clear  stars  —  0  grace  to 

me  — 
In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a  hand 
Before  a  burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided  and  past,  and  close  upon  it  peal'd 


A  sharp  quick  thunder.'     Afterwards  a 

maid. 
Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 
In  secret,  entering,  loosed  andlethimgo." 

To  whom  the  monk  ;  "  And  I  remem- 
ber now 
That  pelican  on  the  casque .  Sir  Bors  it  was 
AVho  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our  board ; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was  he : 
A  square-set  man  and  honest ;  and  his 

eyes, 
An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth  within. 
Smiled  with  his  lips  —  a  smile  beneath 

a  cloud. 
But  heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny  one  : 
Ay,  ay.  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ?     But  when 

ye  reach' d 
The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights  re- 

turn'd. 
Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur's  prophecy, 
Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  what 
the  King?" 

Then  answer'd  Percivale  :  "And  that 
can  I, 
Brother,  and  truly  ;  since  the  living  words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our  King 
Pass  not  from  door  to  door  arid  out  again, 
But  sit  within  the  house.     0,  when  we 

reach'd 
The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they 

trode 
On  heaps  of  rain,  hornless  unicorns, 
Crack' d  basilisks,    and  splinter'd  cock- 
atrices. 
And  shatter'd  talbots,  which  had  left  the 

stones 
Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to 
the  hall. 

"And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais- 
throne, 
And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 

Quest, 
Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a  titheof  them. 
And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before  the 

King. 
Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade 

me  hail, 
Saying,  '  A  welfiire  in  thine  eye  reproves 
Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  forthee 
On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding  ford. 
So  herce  a  gale  made  havoc  here  of  late 
Among  the  strange  devices  of  our  kings ; 
Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall  ol 
ours. 


THE   HOLY   GRAIL. 


209 


And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded  for 
us 

Half- wrench'd  a  golden  ^ving;  but  now — 
the  quest, 

This  vision  —  hast  thou  seen  the  Holy 
Cup, 

That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glaston- 
bury ? ' 

"So  when  I  told  hira  all  thyself  hast 

heard, 
Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  resolve 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life, 
He  answer'd  not,  but,  sharply  turning, 

ask'd 
Of  Gawain,  '  Gawain,  was  this  Quest  for 

thee  ? ' 

"'Nay,  lord,'  said  Gawain,  'not  for 

such  as  I. 
Therefore  I  communed  with  asaintly  man. 
Who  made  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not  for 

me  ; 
For  I  was  much  awearied  of  the  Quest : 
But  found  a  silk  pavilion  in  a  field. 
And  merry  maidens  in  it ;  and  then  this 

gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin. 
And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
Witli  all  discomfort ;  yea,  and  but  for  this. 
My  twelvemonth  and  a  day  were  jileasant 

to  me.' 

"He  ceased;    and  Arthur  turn'd  to 

whom  at  first 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering, 

push'd 
Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  caught 

his  hand. 
Held  it,  and  there,  half-hidden  by  him, 

stood, 
Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to  him, 
'  Hail,  Bors  !  if  ever  loyal  man  and  true 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail '  ; 

and  Bors, 
'  Ask  me  not,  for  I  may  not  speak  of  it, 
I  saw  it '  :  and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 

"Then  there  remain'd  but  Lancelot, 

for  the  rest 
Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the  storm  ; 
Perhaps,  like  him  of  Caiia  in  Holy  Writ, 
O'lr  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last ; 
'  Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,'  ask'd  the  King, 

'  my  friend. 
Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail'd 

for  thee  ? ' 


"  'Our  mightiest ! '  answer'd  Lancelot, 

with  a  groan  ; 
'  0  King  ! '  —  and  when  he  paused,  me^ 

thought  I  spied 
A  dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes  — 
'  0  King,  my  >i  lend,  if  friend  of  thine  I  be 
Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  their  sin.. 
Swine  in  the  mud,  that  cannot  see  fa 

slime, 
Slime  of  the  ditch  :  but  in  me  lived  a  sir 
So  strange,  of  such  a  kind,  that  all  of  pure, 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and 

clung 
Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  wholesomt 

llower 
And  poisonousgrew  together,  each  as  each, 
Not  to  be  pluck'd  asunder ;  and  when 

thy  knights 
Sware,  I  sware  with  them  only  in  the  hope 
That  could  1  touch  or  see  the  Holy  Grail 
They  might  be  pluck'd  asunder.     Then 

I  spake 
To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and  said. 
That  save  they  could  be  pluck'd  asunder, 

all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain  ;  to  whom  I 

vow'd 
That  1  would  work  according  as  he  will'd. 
And  fortli  I  went,  and  while  I  yearn'd 

and  strove 
To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart, 
My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old. 
And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far  away  ; 
There  was  I  beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of 

my  sword 
And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been  enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once  ;  and  then 

I  came 
All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore. 
Wide   flats,  where  nothing  but   coarse 

grasses  grew  ; 
But  such  a  blast,  my  King,  began  to  blow, 
So  loud  a  l)last  along  the  shore  and  sea. 
Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the  blast; 
Tho'  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all  the  se& 
Drove  like  a  cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a  river,  and  the  clouded  heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the 

sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway'd  a 

boat, 
Half-swallow'd   in   it,  anchor'd  with   a 

chain  ; 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I  said, 
"  1  will  embark  and  I  will  lose   nyself. 
And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my  sin." 


210 


THE   HOLY   GKAIL. 


I  bui'st  the  chain,  I  sprang  into  the  hoat. 
Seven  days  I  drove  along  the  dreary  deep, 
And  with  me  drove  the  nioon  and  all  the 

stars ; 
And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh 

night 
I  heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the  surge, 
And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and  look- 
ing up. 
Behold,  the  enchanted  towers  of  Carbonek, 
A  castle  like  a  rock  upon  a  rock. 
With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the  sea. 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker !  there 

was  none 
Stood  near  it  but  a  lion  on  each  side 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was  full. 
Then  from  the  boat  I  leapt,  and  up  the 

stairs. 
There  drew  my  sword.     With  sudden- 
flaring  manes 
Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright  like 

a  man. 
Each  gript  a  shoulder,  and  I  stood  be- 
tween ; 
And,  when  I  would  have  smitten  them, 

heard  a  voice, 
"  Doubt  not,  go  forward  ;  if  thou  doubt, 

the  beasts 
Will  tear  thee  piecemeal."     Then  with 

violence 
The  sword  was  dash'd  from  out  my  hand, 

and  fell. 
And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I  past ; 
But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I  saw 
No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the  wall 
Or  shield  of  knight  ;  only  the  rounded 

moon 
Thro'  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 
But  always  in  the  quiet  house  1  heard, 
Clear  as  a  lark,  high  o'er  me  as  a  lark, 
A  sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost  tower 
To  the  eastw'ard  :  up  I  climb' d  a  thou- 
sand steps 
With  pain  ;  -^^  in  a  dream  I  seem'd  to 

climb 
For  ever  :  at  the  last  I  reach'd  a  door, 
A  light  was  in  the  ci-aujiies,  and  I  heard, 
"  Glory  and  joy  and  hoaor  to  our  Lord 
And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail." 
Then  in  my  madness  I  essay'd  the  door  ; 
It  gave  ;  and  thro'  a  stormy  glare,  a  heat 
As  from  a  seventimes-heated  furnace,  I, 
Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  1  was, 
With  such  a   fierceness  that  I  swoon'd 

away  — 
0,  yet  methought  I  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 
All  pall'd  in  crimson  samite,  and  around 


Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  winga 

and  eyes. 
And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my  sin, 
And  then  my  swooning,  1  had  sworn  I  saw 
That  which  1  saw  ;  but  what  I  saw  was 

veil'd 
And  cover'd  ;  and  this  quest  was  not  for 

me.' 

"So    speaking,    and    here    ceasing, 

Lancelot  left 
The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain  — 

nay, 
Brother,  'l    need   not  tell  thee   foolish 

words,  — 
A  reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was  he, 
]S'o\y  bolden'd  by  the  silence  of  his  King,  — 
Weil,   1    will  tell   thee:    '0   king,  my 

liege,'  he  said, 
'  Hath  Gawain  fail'dinanyquest  of  thine? 
When  have  I  stinted  stroke  in  foughten 

field? 
Butasforthine,  mygoodfriend,  Percivale, 
Thy  holy   nun    and   thou   have   driven 

men  mad, 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than 

our  least. 
But  by  mine  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I  swear, 
I  will  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat. 
And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday  owl. 
To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies. 
Henceforward. ' 

"'Deafer,'  said  the  blameless  King, 
'Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hojie  not  to  make  th)'self  by  idle  vows, 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 
But  if  indeed  there  came   a  sign  from 

heaven. 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Percivale, 
For  these  have  seen  according  to  their 

sight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times. 
And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the  bard. 
When  God  made  music  thro'  them,  could 

but  speak 
His  music  by  the   framework  and   the 

chord  ; 
And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  tmth. 

' ' '  Nay  —  but  thou  errest,  Lancelot : 

never  yet 
Could   all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight 

and  man 
Twineroundone  sin,  whatever  it  might  be, 
With  such  a  closeness,  but  apart  therg 

grew, 


PELLEAS  AND    ETTAKRE. 


211 


Save  that  he  were  the  swine  tlioii  spak- 
est  of. 

Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure  noble- 
ness ; 

Whereto  see  thou,  tliat  it  may  bear  its 
flower. 

"  'And  spake  I  not  too  truly,  0  my 
kriights  ? 
Was  I  too  dark  a  prophet  when  I  said 
To  those  who  went  upon  the  Holy  Quest, 
That  most  of  them  would  follow  wander- 
ing fires, 
Lost  in  the  quagmire  ?  —  lost  to  me  and 

gone, 
And  left  me  gazing  at  a  barren  board. 
And  a  lean   Order  —  scarce  returu'd  a 

tithe  — 
And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision  came 
My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he  saw  ; 
Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 
And   leaving    human   wrongs  to  right 

themselves, 
Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 
And  one  hath  had  tlie  vision  face  to  face, 
And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in  vain, 
However  they  may  crown  him  otherwhere. 

"  '  And  some  among  you  heUl,  that  if 

the  King 
Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  liave  sworn 

the  vow  : 
Not  easily,  seeing  that  tlie  King  must 

guard 
That  which  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the  hind 
Tc  whom  a  space  of  land  is  given  to  plough, 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted 

field. 
Before  his  work  be  done ;  but,  being  done. 
Let  visions  of  the  niglit  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will ;  and  many  a  time  they 

come, 
Until  this  earth  he  walks  on  seems  not 

earth, 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is  not 

Hght, 
Tliis  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is  not  air 
But   vision  —  yea,    his   very  hand   and 

foot  — 
In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot  die, 
And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  himself, 
Nor  the  high  God  a  vision,  nor  that  One 
Who  rose  again  :  ye  have  seen  what  ye 

have  seen.' 

'  So  spake  the  king  :  I  knew  not  all 
he  meant." 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to  fil] 

the  gap 
Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ;  and  as  he  sat 
In  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  sunder'd,  and  thro'  these  t. 

youtli, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sweet  smell  oi  the  fielai. 
Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with 

him. 

"  Make    me   thy   knight,    because   I 

know.  Sir  King, 
All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I 

love," 
Such  was  his  cry  ;  for  having  heard  the 

King 
Had  let   proclaim  a   tournament  —  the 

prize 
A  golden  circlet  and  a  knightly  sword, 
Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the  sword  : 
And  there  were  those   who   knew   him 

near  the  King 
And  promised  for  him  :  and  Arthur  made 

liim  knight. 

And  this  new  knight.  Sir  Pelleas  of 

the  isles  — 
But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance. 
And  lord  of  many  a  barren  isle  was  ho  — 
Riding  at  noon,  a  day  or  twain  before, 
Across  the  forest  call'd  of  Dean,  to  find 
Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the  sun 
Beat  like  a  strong  knight  on  his  helm, 

and  reel'd 
Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ;  but  saw 
Near  him  a  mound  of  even-sloping  side, 
Whereon  a  hundred  stately  beeches  grew, 
And  here  and  there  gi-eat  hollies  undei 

them. 
But  for  a  mile  all  round  was  open  space. 
And  fern  and  heath  :  and  slowly  Pelleat 

drew 
To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his  good 

horse 
To  a  tree,  cast  himself  down  ;  and  as  he 

lay 
At  random  looking  over  the  brown  earth 
Thro'  that  green-glooming  twilight  of  the 

grove. 
It  seem'd  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  without 
Burnt  as  a  living  fire  of  emeralds, 
So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking  at  it. 
Then  o'er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a  cloud 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow  of  a  bird 


212 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTAREE. 


Flying,  and  then  a  fawn  ;  and  his  eyes 

closed. 
And  since  he  loved  all  maidens,  but  no 

maid 
In   special,    half -awake    he   whisper'd, 

"Where? 
0  where  ?     I  love  thee,  tlio'  I  know  thee 

not. 
For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guinevere, 
And  1  will  make  thee  with  my  spear  and 

sword 
As  famous  —  0  my  queen,  my  Guinevere, 
For  I  will  be  thine  Arthur  when  we  meet." 

Suddenly  waken'd  with  a  sound  of  talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood. 
And  glancing  thro'  the  hoary  boles,  he 

saw, 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might 

have  seem'd 
A  vision  hovering  on  a  sea  of  fire. 
Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  bracken 

stood  : 
And  all  the  damsels  talk'd  confusedly. 
And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and  one 

that. 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose. 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to  the 

light. 
There  she  that  seem'd  the  chief  among 

them  said, 
"  In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star  ! 
Youth,  we  are  damsels-errant,  and  we 

ride, 
Arm'dasyesee,  to  tilt  against  the  knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our  way  : 
To  right  ?  to  left  ?  straightforward  ?  back 

again  ? 
Which  ?  tell  us  quickly." 

And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
'''  Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful  ? " 
For  large  her  violet  eyes  look'd,  and  her 

bloom 
A  rosy  dawn  kindled  in  staii.lcss  heavens, 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  woman- 
hood, 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small  her 

shape, 
And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts 

of  scorn. 
She  might  have  seem'd  a  toy  to  trifle  with. 


And  pass  and  care  no  more.     But  while 

he  gazed 
The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash'd  the  boy, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul : 
For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the  good, 
Puts  his  own  baseness  iu  him  by  default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul  tc 

hers, 
Believiugher ;  and  when  she  spake  to  him, 
Stammer'd,  and  could  not  make  her  a 

rejjly. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he  come. 
Where  savinghis  own  sisters  he  had  known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles, 
Eough  wives,  that  laugh'd  and  scream'd 

against  the  gulls. 
Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the  sea. 

Then  with  a  slow  smile  turn'd  the  lady 
round 
And  look'd  upon  her  people  ;  and  as  when 
A  stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping  tarn, 
The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge. 
Spread  the  slow  smile  thro'  all  her  com- 
pany. 
Three   knights   were  thereamong ;   and 

they  too  smiled, 
Scorning  him  ;  for  the  lady  was  Ettarre, 
And  she  was  a  great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  "0  wild  and  of  the 

woods, 
Knowest   thou   not  the  fashion  of  our 

speech  ? 
Or  have  the  Heavens  but  given  thee  a 

fair  face, 
Lacking  a  tongue  ? " 

"0  damsel,"  answer'd  he, 
"  I  woke  from  dreams  ;  and  coming  out 

of  gloom 
Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and 

crave 
Pardon  :  but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  ?     I 
Go  likewise  :  shall  I  lead  you  to  the  King  ? ' 

"Lead then,"  she  said  ;  and  thro'  the 

woods  they  went. 
And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in  his 

eyes. 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste 

awe. 
His  broken  utterances  and  bashfulness, 
Were  all  a  burthen  to  her,  and  iu  her 

heart 
She  mutter'd,  "  I  have  lighted  on  a  fool, 


PELLEAS  AND   ETTAKRE. 


213 


Raw,  yet  so  stale  i  "    Bn*-  's'-nne  her  mind  | 

was  bent 
On  hearing,  after   trumpet   blown,  her 

name 
And  title,  "  Queen  of  Beauty,"  in  the  lists 
Cried  —  and   beholding  him   so  strong, 

she  thought 
That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for  me, 
And  win  the  circlet :  therefore  tiatter'd 

him, 
Being  so  gracious,  that  he  wellnigh  deem'd 
His  wish  by  hers  was  echo'd  ;  and  her 

knights 
And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious  to 

him. 
For  she  was  a  great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach'd 
Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  she. 
Taking  his  hand,  "  0  the  strong  hand," 

she  said, 
"See!  look  at  mine!  but  wilt  thou  fight 

for  me. 
And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 
That  I  may  love  thee  ? " 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried  "Ay  !  wilt  thou  if 

I  win  ? " 
"  Ay,  that  will  I,"  she  answer'd,  and  she 

laugh'd, 
And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung  it 

from  her  ; 
Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three  knights 

of  hers, 
Till  all  her  ladies  laugh'd  along  with  her. 

"0   happy  world,"  thought  Pelleas, 

"all,  meseems. 
Are  happy  ;  I  the  happiest  of  them  all." 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in  his 

blood. 
And  green  wood-ways,  and  eyes  among 

the  leaves  ; 
Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted,  sware 
To  love  one  only.    And  as  he  came  away, 
The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on  their 

heels 
And  wonder'd  after  him,  because  his  face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a  priest  of 

old 
Against  the  flame  about  a  sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven  :  so  glad  was 

he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets,  and 
strange  knights 


From  the  four  winds  came  in  :  and  each 

a/:*-,  sat. 
The   seiTSU  with  choice  from  air,  land 

stream,  and  sea. 
Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with  hit 

eyes 
His  neighbor's  make  and  might  ;  ana 

Pelleas  look'd 
Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream'd 
His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  hiraselt 
Loved  of  the  King :  and  him  his  new- 

made  knight 
Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper  moved 

him  more 
Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the  world. 

Then  blush'd  and  brake  thu  morning 

of  the  jousts, 
And  this  was  call'd  "The  Tournament 

of  Youth  "  : 
For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight, 

withheld 
His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the  lists. 
That    Pelleas   might   obtain   his   lady's 

love. 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.     And  Arthur  had 

the  jousts 
Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of  Usk 
Holden  :  the  gilded  parapets  were  crown'd 
With  faces,  and  the   gi-eat  tower  fiU'd 

with  eyes 
Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets  blew. 
There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleaskept  the  field 
Withhonor  :  sobythat  strong  hand  of  his 
The    sword    and    golden    circlet    were 

achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved  : 

the  heat 
Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face  ;  her  eye 
Sparkled  ;    she  caught  the  circlet  from 

his  lance, 
And  there  before  the  people  crown'd  hei 

self. 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious  to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a  space  — her  look 
Bright  for  all  others,   cloudier   on    hei 

knight  — 
Linger'd    Ettarre  :   and    seeing    Pelleas 

droop, 
Said   Guinevere,    ' '  We  marvel  at   thee 

much, 
0  damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 
To  him  who  won  thee  glory  i  "  And  she 

said. 


214 


PELLEAS   AND    ETTARRE. 


"  Had  ye  not  held  yonr  Lancelot  in  your 

bower, 
My  Queen,  he  had  not  won."     Whereat 

the  Queen, 
As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant. 
Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn'd  and  went 

her  way. 

But  after,  Avhen  lier  damsels,  and  her- 
self. 
And  those  three   knights  all  set  their 

faces  home, 
Sir  Pelleas  follow'd.     She  that  saw  him 

cried, 
"  Damsels  —  and  yet  I  should  be  shamed 

to  say  it  — 
I  cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.    Keep  him  back 
Among  yourselves.     Would  rather  that 

we  had 
Some  rough  old  kniglit  who  knew  the 

worldly  way, 
Albeit  grizzlier  than  a  bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with  :  take  him  to  you,  keep 

hir.i  off. 
And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye  will. 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 
Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell  their 

boys. 
Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a  merry  one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good  :  and  if  he  fly 

us. 
Small  matter  !  let  him."   This  her  dam- 
sels heard, 
And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel  hand. 
They,  closing  round  him  thro'  the  jour- 
ney home, 
Acted  her  hest,  and  always  from  her  side 
Restrain'd  him  with  all  manner  of  device, 
So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech  with 

her. 
And  when  she  gain'd  her  castle,  upsprang 

the  bridge, 
Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro'  the 

groove, 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

"  These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,"  Pelleas 

thought, 
"  To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of  our 

faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost. 
For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I." 
So  made  his  moan  ;  and,  darkness  falling, 

sought 
A  priory  not  far  off',  there  lodged,  but  rose 
With  morning  every  day,  and,  moist  or 

dry, 


Full-arm'd  upon  his  charger  all  day  lon^ 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open'd  to 
him. 

And  this  persistence  turn'd  her  scorn 

to  wrath. 
Then    calling    her    three    knights,    she 

charged  them,  "Out  ! 
And  drive  him  from  the  walls."     Anc 

out  they  came. 
But  Pelleas  overthrew  them  as  they  dash' c"l 
Against  him  one  by  one  ;  and  these  re- 

turn'd. 
But  .still  he  kej^t  his  watch  beneath  the 

wall. 

Thereon   her   wrath   became  a  hate  ; 

and  once, 
A  week  beyond,  while  walking  on  the 

walls 
With   her  three   knights,    she    i)ointed 

downward,  "Look, 
He   haunts    me  —  I    cannot    breathe  — 

besieges  me  ; 
Down  !  strike  him  !    put  my  hate  into 

your  strokes. 
And  drive  him  from  my  walls."     And 

down  they  went. 
And  Pelleas  ovei'threw  them  one  by  one ; 
And  from  the   tower   above   hiru    cried 

Ettarre, 
"  Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in." 

He  heard  her  voice  ; 
Then  let  the  strong  hand,   which   had 

overthrown 
Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  over- 

•  threw 
Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they  brought 
him  in. 

Then  when  he   came  before  Ettarre, 

tlie  sight 
Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one  glance 
More  bondsman  in  his  heart  than  in  his-: 

bonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  "  Behold 

me,  Lady, 
A  prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 
And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  donjon  here, 
Content  am  1  so  that  I  see  thy  face 
But  once  a  day  :  for  I  have  sworn  my  vows, 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and  1 

know 
That  all  these  pains  are  trials  of  my  faith, 
And  that  thyself  when  thou  hast  seen  me 

strain'd 


PELLEAS   AKD    ETTARRE. 


215 


And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
yield  me  thy  love  and  know  nie  for  thy 
knight." 

Thsn  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 
With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken 

mute  ; 
But  when  she  mock'd  his  vows  and  the 

gi-eat  King, 
Lighted  on  words  :  "For  pity  of  thine 

own  self. 
Peace,  Lady,  peace  :  is  he  not  thine  and 

mine  ? " 
"Thou  fool,"  she  said,  "1  never  heard 

his  voice 
But  long'd  to  break  away.    Unbind  him 

now, 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors  ;  for  save 

he  be 
Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his  bones, 
He  will  return  no  more."     And  those, 

her  three, 
Laugh'd,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him 

from  the  gate. 

And  after  this,  a  week  beyond,  again 
She   call'd    them,    saying,    "There    he 

watches  yet. 
There  like  a  dog  before  his  master's  door  ! 
Kick'd,  he  returns  :  do  ye  not  hate  him, 

ye? 

Ye  know  yourselves :  how  can  ye  bide 

at  peace. 
Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence  ? 
Are  ye  but  creaturesof  the  board  and  l»ed. 
No  men  to  strike  ?  Fall  on  him  all  at  once, 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I  reck  not  :  if  ye  fail. 
Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be  bound. 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him  in : 
It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his  bonds." 

She   spake  ;    and    at    her   will    they 

couch'd  their  spears. 
Three  against  one :  and  Gawain  passingby, 
Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of  those 

towers 
i  villany,  three  to  one :  and  thro'  his  heart 
The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flasli'd,  and  he  call'd,  "  I  strike  upon 

thy  side  — 
The    caitiffs!"     "Nay,"    said   Pelleac, 

' '  but  forbear  ; 
He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  lady's  will." 

So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany  done, 
Forebore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 


Trembled  and  quivcr'd,  as  the  dog,  with- 
held 
A  moment  from  the  vermin  that  he  sees 
Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs  and 
kills. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to 

three  ; 
And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and  brought 

him  in. 
Then   first   her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas. 

burn'd 
Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil  name 
Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 

hound  : 
"Yet,  take  him,  j'e  that  scarce  are  fit  to 

touch. 
Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and  thrust 

him  out, 
And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his 

bonds. 
And  if  he  comes  again  " — there  she  brake 

short  ; 
And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "Lady,  for  indeed 
I  loved  you  and  I  deem'd  you  beautiful, 
I  cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty  marr'd 
Thro'  evil  spite  :  and  if  ye  love  me  not, 
1  cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  forsworn  : 
I  had  liefer  ya  were  worthy  of  my  love. 
Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you  —  farewell ; 
And  tho'  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my  love, 
Vex'not  yourself :  ye  will  not  see  me  more." 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon 

the  man 
Of  princely  bearing,  tho'  in  bonds,  and 

thought, 
"  Why  have  I  push'd  him  from  me  ?  this 

man  loves, 
If  love  there  be  :  yet  him  I  loved  not. 

Why  ? 
1  deem'd  him  fool?  yea,  so?  or  that  in  him 
A  something — was  it  nobler  than  my- 
self?— 
Seem'd  my  reproach  ?    He  is  not  of  my 

kind. 
He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me  well. 
Nay,  let  him  go — -and  quickly."     And 

her  knights 
Laugh'd  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden 

out  of  door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed  him 
fi'om  his  bonds. 

And  flung  them  o'er  the  walls  ;  and  after- 
ward. 

Shaking  his  hands,  as  fnm  a  lazar's  rag, 


216 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTAREE. 


"  Faith  of  my  body,"  he  said,  "  and  art 

thou  not  — 
Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur 

made 
Knight  of  his  table  ;  yea  and  he  that  won 
The  circlet  ?  wherefore  hast  thou  so  de- 
famed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the  rest. 
As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their 
will?"  .        , 

And  Pelleas  answer'd,  "0,  their  wills 

are  hers 
For  whom  I  won  the  circlet ;  and  mine, 

hers, 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr'd  tho'  it  be  with  spite  and  mockery 

now, 
Other  than  when  I  found  her  in  the  woods  ; 
And  tho'  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in  spite, 
Andallto  floutme,  when  they  bring  main, 
Let  me  be  bounden,  I  shall  see  her  face  ; 
Else  must  I  die  thro'  mine  unhappiness." 

And  Gawain  answer'd  kindly  tho'  in 

scorn, 
"  Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she  will. 
And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 
But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  lighting  hands  of  mine  —  Christ 

kill  me  then 
But  I  will  slice  him  handless  by  the  wrist, 
And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for  him, 
Howl  as  he  may.     But  hold  me  for  your 

friend  : 
Come,  ye  know  nothing  :  here  I  pledge 

my  troth. 
Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 
1  will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy  work. 
And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to  thine 

hand. 
Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  1 

will  say 
That  I  have  slain  thee.   She  will  let  me  in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and  fall  ; 
Then,  when  I  come  within  her  counsels, 

then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I  chant  thy 

praise 
As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover,  more 
Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till  she 

long 
To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again. 
Not  to  be  bounds  save  by  white  bonds 

and  warm, 
Dearer  than   freedom.     "Wherefore  now 

thy  horse 


And  armor  :  let  me  go  :  he  comforted  : 
Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy, 

and  hope 
The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee  new,? 

of  gold." 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his 

arms. 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and 

took 
Gawain's,  and  said,  "  Betray  me  not,  bu' 

help  — 
Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light-of- 

love  ? " 

"Ay,"  said  Gawain,  "for  women  bo 
so  light." 
Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle  walls, 
And  raised  a  bugle  hanging  from  his  neck. 
And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 
That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the  wall 
Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunting- 
tide. 

Up  ran  a  score  of  damsels  to  the  tower  ; 
"Avaunt,"  they  cried,  "our  ladyloves 

thee  not." 
But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  visor  said, 
Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur's  court. 
And  I  have  slain  this  Pelleas  whom  ye 

hate  : 
Behold  his  horse  and  armor.     Open  gate, 
And  I  will  make  you  merry." 

And  down  they  ran. 
Her  damsels,  crying  to  their  lady,  "  Lo  ! 
Pelleas  is  dead  —  he  told  us  ^ — he  that  hath 
His  horse  and  armor :  will  ye  let  him  in  ? 
He  slew  him  !    Gawain,  Gawain  of  the 

court. 
Sir  Gawain  —  there  he  waits  below  the 

wall, 
Blowing  his  bugle  as  who  should  say  him 

nay." 

And  so,  leave  given,  straight  on  thro' 
open  door 
Rode  Gawain,  whom  she  greeted  cour- 
teously. 
"Dead,  isitso?"sheask'd.      "Ay,  ay," 

said  he, 
"  Andoftindyingcried  upon  your  name." 
"Pity  on  him,"  she  answer'd,  "a  good 

knight. 
But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at  peace." 
' '  Ay,"  thought  Gawain,  "  and  ye  be  fair 
enow : 


PELLEAS   AND    ETTARRE. 


217 


But  I  to  your  dead  man  have  given  ray 

troth. 
That  whom  ye  loathe  him  will  I  make 

you  love." 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about  the 

land, 
Lost  in  a  doubt,  Pelleas  wandering 
Waited,  until  the  third  night  brought  a 

moon 
With  promise  of  large  light  on  woods  and 

ways. 

The  night  was  hot  :  he  could  not  rest, 

but  rode 
Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound  his 

horse 
Hard  by  the  gates.     Wide  open  were  the 

gates. 
And  no  watch  kept ;  and  in  thro'  these 

he  pa.st. 
And  heard  but  his  o\vn  steps,  and  his 

own  heart 
Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his  own 

self. 
And  his  own   shadow.     Then  he   crost 

the  court. 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  ^\•ide 
Yawning  ;  and  up  a  slope  of  garden,  all 
Of  roses  white  and  red,  and  wild  ones 

mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went   on,   and 

found. 
Here  too,  all  hush'd  below  the  mellow 

moon. 
Save  that  one  ri\'ulet  from  a  tiny  cave 
Came  lightening  downward,  and  so  spilt 

itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  was  lost  again. 

Then  was  he  ware  that  white  pavilions 
rose. 

Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt : 
in  one. 

Red  after  revel,  droned  her  lurdane 
knights 

Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires  across 
their  feet : 

In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 

Froz'n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  dam- 
sels lay  : 

And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the  jousts 

Bound  on  her  brow,  were  Qawain  and 
Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a  hand  that  pushes  thro'  the 
leaf 


To  find  a  nest  and  feels  a  snake,  he  drew. 
Back,  as  a  coward  slinks  from  what  he 

fears 
To   cope   with,  or  a  traitor  proven,  or 

hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelleas  in  an  utter  shame 
Creep  with  his  shadow  thro'  the  court 

again, 
Fingering  at  his  sword-luuidlc  until  he 

stood 
There  on    the  castle-bridge  once   more, 

and  thought, 
"1  will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where 

they  lie." 

And  so  went   back  and   seeing  then: 

yet  in  sleep 
Said,    "  Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy 

sleep, 
Your  sleep  is  death,"  and  drew  the  sword, 

and  thought, 
"What!    slay  a  sleeping   knight?   the 

King  hath  bound 
And  sworn  me   to  this  brotherhood  "  ; 

again, 
"Alas  that  ever  a  knight  should  be  so 

Mse." 
Then  turn'd,  and  so  return'd,  and  groan- 
ing laid 
The  naked  sword  athwart   their   naked 

throats. 
There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping  ;   and 

she  laj% 
The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her  brows, 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 

throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on 

his  horse 
Stared   at  her  towers  that,  larger  than 

themselves 
In  their  own  darkness,  throng'd  into  the 

moon. 
Then  crush'd  the  saddle  with  his  thighs, 

and  clench'd 
His  hands,  and  madden' d  with  himself 

and  moan'd  : 

' '  Would  they  have  risen  against  me 

in  their  blood 
At  the  last  day  ?     I  might  have  answer'd 

them 
Even   before   high    God.     0   towers   so 

strong, 
Huge,  solid,  would  that  even  while  1  gaze 
The   crack  of  earthquake   .shivering  tq 

your  base 


218 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTARRE. 


Split  yon,  and  Hell  burst  up  your  harlot 
roofs  ~" 

Bellowing^  and  cliarr'd  you  thro'  and 
thro'  within, 

Black  as  the  harlot's  heart  —  hollow  as 
a  skull ! 

Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro'  your  eye- 
let-holes, 

And  whirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round  and 
round 

In  dung  and  nettles  !  hiss,  snake  —  I 
saw  him  there  — 

het  the  fox  bark,  let  the  wolf  yell.  Who 
yells 

Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night, 
but  I  — 

I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call'd  her 
fool? 

Fool,  beast  —  he,  she,  or  I  ?  myself  most 
fool; 

Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  —  dis- 
graced, 

Dishonor'd  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 

Love  ? — we  be  all  alike  :  only  the  king 

Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.  0  noble 
vows  ! 

0  great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of  brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no 

law  ! 
For  why  should  I  have  loved  her  to  my 
shame  ? 

1  loathe  her,  as  I  loved  her  to  my  shame. 
I  never  loved  her,  I  but  lusted  for  her  — 
Away  —  " 

He  dash'd  the  rowel  into  his  horse. 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish'd   thro' 
the  night. 

Then  .she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on 

her  throat. 
Awaking  knew  the  sword,  and   turn'd 

herself 
To  Gawain  :  "Liar,  for  thou  hast   not 

slain 
This  Pelleas  !  here  he  stood  and  might 

have  slain 
Me  and  thyself."     And  he  that  tells  the 

tale 
Says  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  tum'd 
To  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on  earth. 
And  only  lover ;  and  thro' her  love  her  life 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half  the 
night. 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the  sod 


From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  ofl  the 

hard. 
Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening  sun, 
Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was 

cowl'd, 
Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the 

dawn. 
For  so  the  words  were  flash'd  into  his 

heart 
He  knew  not  whence  or  wherefore  :  "0 

sweet  star,  , 

Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the  dawn.'' 
And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but  felt 

his  eyes 
Harder  and  drier  than  a  fountain  bed 
In  summer :  thither  came  the  village  girls 
And  linger'd  talking,  and  they  come  no 

more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fiU'd  it  from 

the  heights 
Again  with  living  waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons  :   hard  his  eyes;  harder  his 

heart 
Seem'd  ;  but  so  weary  were  his  limbs, 

tbat  he, 
Gasping,    "Of  Arthur's  hall  am  I,  but 

here. 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,"  cast  himself 

down. 
And  gulph'd  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep  , 

so  lay, 
Till  shaken  by  a  dream,  that  Gawain  fired 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning  stai 
Eeel'd  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame, 

and  fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  wa:re  of  some  one 
nigh. 

Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  tear  him, 
crjing 

"  False  !  and  I  held  thee  pure  as  Guin- 
evere." 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and  re- 
plied, 

' '  Am  I  but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure  ? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams  ?  or  being 
one 

Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not  heard 

That  Lancelot "  —  there  he  check'd  him- 
self and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as  with 

one 
Who  gets  a  wound  in  battle,  and  the  sword 
That  made  it  plunges  thro'  the  wound 

again, 


PELLEAS   AND   ETTAREE. 


219 


And  pncks  it  deeper  :  and  he  shrank  and 

wail'd, 
"  Is  the  Queen  false  ?  "  and  Percivale  was 

mute. 
"  Have  any  of  our  Round  Table   held 

their  vows  ? " 
A.nd  Percivale  made  answer  not  a  word. 
"  Is  the  king  true  ? "  "  The  king !  "  said 

Percivale. 
''  Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once  with 

wolves. 
jVhat !  art  thou  mad  ? " 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up, 
Ran  thro'  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his 

horse 
And  fled  :  small  pity  upon  his  horse  had 

he, 
Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 
A  cripple,  one  that  held  a  hand   for 

alms  — 
Hunch'd  as  he  was,  and  like   an   old 

dwarf-elm 
That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast,  the 

boy 
Paused  not  but  overrode  him,  snouting 

"False, 
And  false  with  Gawain  ! "  and  so  left  him 

biniised 
And  batter'd,  and  fled  on,  and  liill  and 

wood 
Went  ever  sti'eaming  by  him  till  the 

gloom. 
That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the  world, 
Darken'd  the  common  path  :  he  twitch'd 

the  reins. 
And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew  it, 

swerve 
Now  off  it  and  now  on  ;  but  when  he  .saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin 

built. 
Blackening  against  the  dead-green  stirpes 

of  even, 
''Black  ne.st  of  rats,"  he  groau'd,  "ye 

build  too  high." 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city  gates 
issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily, 
Warm  with  a  gracious  parting  from  tht; 

Queen, 
Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a  star 
And  marvelling  what  it  was  :  on  whom 

the  boy, 
Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow-grass 
Borne,  clash'd  :    and    Lancelot,  saying, 

' '  What  name  hast  thou 
That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so  hard  ? " 


"  I   have   no  name,"  he   shouted,    "o, 

scourge  am  I, 
To  la.sh  the  treasons  of  the  Table  Round." 
"Yea,  but  thy  name  ? "    "I  have  many 

names,"  he  cried  : 
"I  am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and 

evil  fame. 
And  like  a  jioisonous  wind  I  pass  to  blast 
And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and  the 

Queen." 
"First  over  me,"  said  Lancelot,  "shalt 

thou  pass." 
"  Fight  therefore,"  yell'd  the  other,  and 

either  knight 
Drew  back  a  space,  and  when  they  closed, 

at  once 
The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  floundering 

flung 
His  rider,  who  called  out  from  the  dark 

held, 
"Thou   art  false  as  Hell  :   slay  me  :  I 

have  no  sword." 
Then  Lancelot,  "  Yea,  between  thy  lips 

—  and  sharp  ; 
But  here  will  I  disedge  it  by  thy  death." 
"Slay  then,"  he  shiiek'd,  "my  will  is 

to  be  slain." 
And  Lancelot,   with  his  heel  upon  the 

fall'n. 
Rolling  his  eyes,  a  moment  stood,  then 

spake  : 
"Rise,  weakling;  I  am  Lancelot;  say 

thy  say.' 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war-horse 

back 
To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief  while 
Caught  his  unbroken  liml)s  from  the  dark 

field. 
And  follow'd  to  the  city.     It  chanced 

that  both 
Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was 

Guinevere. 
Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lancelot 
Sosoonreturn'd,  and  then  on  Pelleas,  him 
Who  hadnotgreeted  her,  but  cast  himself 
Do\vn  on  a  bench, hard-breathing.  ' '  Have 

ye  fought  ? " 
Sheask'dof  Lancelot.    "  Ay,  my  Queen," 

he  said. 
"And   thou   hast    overthrown    him?" 

"Ay,  ray  Queen." 
Then  .she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  "0  young 

knight. 
Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in 

thee  fail'd 


220 


GTJINEVEKE. 


So  far  thou  canst  not  'bide,  nnfrowardly, 
A  falli.om  him  ? "  Then,  for  he  answer'd 

not, 
"Or  hast  thou  other  griefs?     If  I,  the 

Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and 

let  rne  know." 
But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  ej^e  so  fierce 
She  quail'd  ;  and  he,  hissing  "  1  have  no 

sword," 


Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark.   The 

Queen 
Look'd  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on  her  ; 
And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to 

be:  _ 

And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a  grove  all  song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of  prey, 
Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  the  hall, 
And  ilodred  thought,  ' '  The  time  is  hard 

at  hand. " 


GUINEVERE. 


=s^ 


QtrEEJf  Gttinevere  had  fled  the  court, 

and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  alittlemaid, 
A  novice  :  one  low  light  betwixt  them 

burn'd 
Blurr'd   by  the   creeping  mist,  for   all 

abroad. 
Beneath  a  moon  iinseen  albeit  at  full, 
The  white  mist,  like  a  face-cloth  to  the 

face, 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land 

was  still. 


For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  oS 
flight 

Sir  Modred  ;  he  that  like  a  subtle  beast 

Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the 
throne, 

Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a  chance  :  for 
this. 

He  chill'd  the  popular  praises  of  the 
King 

With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparage- 
ment ; 

And  tamper'd  with  the  Lordsof  the  "Whit« 
Horse, 


GUINEVERB. 


221 


Heathen,  the  biood  by  Heugist  left ;  and 

sought 
To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 
Serving  his  traitorous  end  ;  and  all  his 

aims 
"Were  sharpen'd  by  strong  hate  for  Lance- 
lot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when  all 

the  court, 
Green  -  suited,    but   with   plumes   that 

mock'd  the  may. 
Had  leen,  their  wont,  a-maying  and  re- 

turn'd. 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and 

eye, 
Climb'd  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden- wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might. 
And  saw  the  Queen  who  sat  betwLxt  her 

best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst ;  and  more  than 

this 
He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch'd,  and  as  the  gar- 
dener's hand 
Picks  from  t  he  cole  wort  a  green  cater  pill  a  r. 
So  from  the  high  Wall  and  the  flowering 

grove 
Of  grass 's  Lancelot  pluck'd  him  by  the 

heel. 
And  cast  him  as  a  worm  upon  the  way  ; 
But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho'  marr'd 

with  dust. 
He,  reverencing  king's  blood  in  a  bad  man. 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
Full  knightly  without  scorn  ;  for  in  those 

days 
No  knight  of  Arthur's  noblest  dealt  in 

scorn  ; 
But,  if  a  man  were  halt  or  hunch'd,  in 

him 
By  those  whom  God  had  madefull-limb'd 

and  tall, 
Scorn  was  allow'd  as  part  of  his  defect, 
And  he  was  answer'd  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.    So  Sir  Lancelot  holn 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or 

thrice 
Full  sharply  smote  his  knees,  and  smiled, 

and  went ; 
But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 


But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she 

laugh'd 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred's  dusty  fall, 
Then  shudder'd,  as  the  village  wife  who 

cries 
"I  shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 

grave  "  ; 
Then  laugh'd  again,  but  faintlier,  for  in- 

deed 
Slie half- foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beastj 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found, 

and  hers 
Would  be  for  evermore  a  name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in 

Hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred's  narrow  foxy  face, 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent 

eye: 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend 

the  soul. 
To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot  die,^ 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.     Many  a  time 

for  hours. 
Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 
In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and 

went 
Before  her,  or  a  vague  spiritual  fear  — 
Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking 

doors, 
Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a  haunted  house, 
That  keeps  the  rust  of  nmrder  on  the 

walls  — 
Held  her  awake  :   or  if  she  slept,   she 

dream'd 
An  awful  dream  ;  for  then  she  seem'd  to 

stand 
On  some  vast  plain  before  a  setting  sun. 
And  from  thesun  there  swiftly  madeather 
A  ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  ilew 
Before  it,  till  it  toach'd  her,  and  she 

turn'd  — 
When  lo  !  her  own,  that  broadening  from 

her  feet. 
And  blackening,  swallow'd  all  the  land, 

and  in  it 
Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a  cry  she  woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but  grew ; 
Till  ev'n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless 

King, 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life. 
Became  her  bane  ;  and  at  the  last  she  said, 
"  0  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine  own 

land. 
For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again. 
And  if  we  meet  again,  some  ev^il  chance 


222 


GUINEVERE. 


Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal  break 

and  blaze 
Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King." 
And   Lancelot   ever   promised,   but   re- 

main'd, 
And  still  they  met  and  met.     Again  she 

said, 
"0  Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee 

hence." 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a  night 
(When  the  good  Kingshould  not  be  there) 

to  meet 
And  part  for  ever.    Passion-pale  they  met 
And  greeted  :  hands  in  hands,  and  eye 

to  eye, 
Low  on  tlie  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering  and  staring :  it  was  their  last 

hour, 
A  madness  of  farewells.     And  Modred 

brought 
His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 
^or  testimony ;  and  crying  with  full  voice 
"  Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last," 

aroused 
Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lionlike 
Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl'd  him  headlong, 

and  he  fell 
Stunn'd,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare 

him  oft 
And  all  was  still :  then  she,  "  the  end  is 

come 
And  I  am  shamed  for  ever  "  ;  and  he  said 
"  Mine  be  the  shame  ;  mine  was  the  sin  : 

but  rise. 
And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas  : 
There  will  I  hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall  end, 
There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the 

world." 
She  answer'd  "  Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold 

me  so  ? 
Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  fare- 
wells. 
Would  God,  that  thou  couldst  hide  me 

from  myself ! 
Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I  was  wife,  and  thou 
Unwedded  :  yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly. 
For  I  will  draw  me  into  sanctuary, 
A.nd  bide  my  doom."     So  Lancelot  got 

her  horse, 
Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own. 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 
There  kiss'd,  and  parted  weeping  :  for  he 

past. 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 
Back  to  his  land  ;  but  she  to  Almesbury 
Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste 

and  weald, 


And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  an3 

weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard 

them  moan  : 
And  in  herself  she  moan'd  "too  late,  too 

late  !  " 
Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the 

morn, 
A  blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high, 
Croak'd,  and  she  thought  "he  tpies  a 

field  of  death ; 
For  now  the  Heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 
Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the 

court. 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  land."' 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she 

spake 
There   to  the   nuns,  and  said,   "mine 

enemies 
Pursue  me,  but,  0  peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuar}^  nor  ask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  hei 

time 
To  tell  you" :  and  her  beauty,  grace,  and 

power 
Wrought  as  a  charm  upon  them,  and  thej 

spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a  week,  unknown,  among  the 

nuns  ; 
Nor  with  them  mix'd,  nor  told  her  name, 

nor  sought. 
Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for  shrift. 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a  babbling  heed- 
lessness 
Which  often  lured  her  from  herself ;  but 

now. 
This  night,  a  rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurped  the 

realm, 
And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while 

the  King 
Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot :  then  she 

thought, 
"With  what  a  hate  the  people  and  the 

King 
Must  hate  me,"  and  bow'd  down  upon 

her  hands 
Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook'd 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  "late  !  so 

late  ! 
What  hour,  I  wonder,  now  ? "  and  wheB 

she  drew 
No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 


GUINEVF.RE. 


223 


An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her  ;  "  late, 

so  late  !  " 
Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look'd 

up,  and  said, 
"0  maiden,  if  indeed  ye  list  to  sing. 
Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I  may 

weep." 
Whereat   full  willingly  sang  the  little 

maid. 

"  Late,  late,   so  late  !    and  dark   the 
night  and  cliill ! 
Late,  late,  so  late  !  but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late  I  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  No  light  had  we  :  for  that  we  do  re- 
pent ; 

And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will 
relent. 

Too  late,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

'*  No  light :    so  late  !   and  dark  and 
chill  tlie  niglit  ! 
0  let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light ! 
Too  late,  too  late  :  ye  cannot  enter  now. 

"  Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom 
is  so  sweet  / 
0  let  us  in,  tho'  late,  to  kiss  Iiis  feet  ! 
No,  no,  too  late  !  ye  cannot  enter  now." 

So  sang  the  novice,  wlule  full  passion- 
ately. 
Her  head  upon  her  iiainls,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept 

the  sad  Queen. 
Then  said  the  litt  le  novice  prattling  to  her. 

"  0  pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no  more ; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so 

small, 
W^hoknowiiig  nothingknowsbutto  obey. 
And  if  I  do  not  there  is  penance  given  — 
Comfort  your  sorrows  ;  for  they  do  not 

flow 
From  evil  done  ;  right  sure  am  I  of  that, 
Who  see  your  tender  graeeandstateliness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord 

the  King's, 
And  weighing  find  them  less  ;  for  gone 

is  he 
To  wage  giim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot 

there. 
Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds 

the  Queen, ; 
And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of 

all. 


The  traitor  -  -  Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King's 

grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen, 

and  realm. 
Must  needs  be  thrice  as  gi'eat  as  any  of 

ours. 
Forme,  I  thank  the  saints,  I  am  not  gi  eat. 
For  if  there  ever  come  a  gi'ief  to  me 
I  cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done : 
None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought 

me  good  : 
But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this 

grief 
Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must 

bear. 
That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 
Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a  cloud : 
As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
About   the  good  King  and  his  wicked 

Queen, 
And  were  1  suchaKing  withsuchaQueen, 
Well  might  1  wish  to  veil  her  wickedness. 
But  were  1  such  a  King,  it  could  not  be." 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter'd 
the  Queen. 

"  Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  inno- 
cent talk  ? " 

But  openly  she  answer'd  "  must  not  I, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his 
lord. 

Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the 
realm  ? " 

"Yea,"  said  the   maid,   "this  is  all 

woman's  grief, 
That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought   confusion  in  the   Table 

Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years 

ago. 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders, 

there 
AtCamelot,  ere  the  comingof  the  Queen." 

Then  thought  the  Queen  within  her- 
self again  ; 

"Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish 
prate  ? " 

But  openly  she  spaRe  and  said  to  her  ; 

"  0  little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls, 

What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and 
Tables  Round, 

Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the 
signs 

And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  ? " 


224 


GUINEVERE. 


To  whom  the  little  novice  ganiilously. 
"  Yea,  but  1  know  ;  the  land  was  full  of 

signs 
And  wonders  ere  thecomingof  the  Queen. 
So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table —  atthe  foundingof  it ; 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyounesse,  and 

he  said 
That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe  twain 
After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he  heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused  and  turn- 
ing —  there. 
All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonnesse, 
Each  with  a  beacon-star  upon  his  head, 
And  with  a  wild  sea-light  about  his  feet, 
He  saw  them  —  headland  after  headland 

flame 
Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west  : 
And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden 

swam, 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood 

from  the  sea, 
And  sent  a  deep  sea- voice  thro'  all  the  land. 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and 

cleft 
Made  answer,  soundinglike  a  distant  horn . 
So  said  myfather —  yea,  and  furthermore. 
Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim-lit 

woods. 
Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a  tall  wayside 

flower. 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle 

shakes 
When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the 

seed  : 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 
'The  flickering  fairy-circle   wheel'd  and 

broke 
Flying,  and   link'd  again,  and  wheel'd 

and  broke 
Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 
A  wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the 

hall  ; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a  feast 
As  never  man  had  dream'd  ;  for  every 

knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long'd  for  served 
By  hands  unseen  ;  and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 
Shoulder'd  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the 

butts 
While  the  wine  ran  :  so  glad  were  spirits 

and  men 
Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen." 


Then  spake  the  Queen  and  somewhat 

bitterly. 
"Were  they  so  glad?  ill  prophets  were 

they  all. 
Spirits  and  men  :   could  none  of  them 

foresee, 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall'n  upor  the 

realm  ? " 

To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again. 
"  Yea,  one,  a  bard  ;  of  whom  my  father 

said, 
Full  many  a  noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev'n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy's  fleet, 
Between  the  steep  cliff"  and  the  coming 

wave  ; 
And  many  a  mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain- 
tops. 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the 

hills 
With  all  their  dewy  hair   blown  back 

like  flame  : 
So  said  my  father  —  and  that  night  the 

bard 
Sang  Arthur's  glorious  wars,  and  sang 

the  King 
AsAvellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail'd 

at  those 
Who  call'd  him  the  false  son  of  Gorlois  : 
For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence 

he  came  ; 
But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave 

broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude 

and  Bos, 
There  came  a  day  as  still  as  heaven,  and 

then 
They  found  a  naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  dark  Tintagil  by  the  Cornish  sea  ; 
And  that  was  Arthur  ;  and  they  foster'd 

him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  apjiroven  king  : 
And  that  his  grave  should  be  a  mysterj 
From  all  men,  like  his  biith  ;  and  could 

he  find 
A  woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he  sang, 
The  twain  together  well  might  change 

the  world. 
But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter'd,andhishand  fell  from  theharp. 
And  pale   he   turn'd,    and   reel'd,    and 

would  have  fall'n. 
But  that  they  stay'd  him  up  ;  nor  would 

he  tell 


GUINEVERE 


225 


or  dark  TintagU  by  the  Cornisii  ; 


His  vision  ;  but  what  doubt  that  he  fore- 
saw 
Thise  vil  work  of  Lancelot  ami  the  Queen? " 

Then  thought  the  Queen   "  lo  !  tliey 

have  set  her  on. 
Our  simple-seeminf;  Abbess  andher  nuns, 
To  play  upon  lue,"  and  bow'd  her  head 

nor  spake. 
Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp'd 

hands. 
Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously, 
Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her  gad- 
ding tongue 
Full  often,  "and,  sweet  lady,  if  I  seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me. 
Unmannerly,  with  prattling  and  the  tales 
Which  mygood  father  told,  check  me  too: 
Nor  let  me  shame  my  father's  memory, 

one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tlio'  himself  would  say 
Sir  l-ancelot  had  the  noblest ;  and  he  died, 
Kill'd  in  a  tilt,  come  next,  live  summers 

back. 
And  left  me ;  but  of  others  who  remain, 
And  of  the  two  tirst-famed  for  courtesy — 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  1  ask  amiss  — 
But  pray  you,  M-hich  had  noblest,  while 

you  moved 
Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 

King?" 


Then  the  jiale  Queen  look'd  up  and  an- 

swer'd  her. 
"  Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a  noble  knight, 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  tlie  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantagi-,  and  the  King 
In  open  battle  or  the  tiiting-Held 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these 

two 
Were  the  most  nobly-mannered  men  of 

all; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  luyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind." 

"Yea,"  said  the  maid,  "be  manner^ 
such  fair  fruit  ? 
Theti  Lancelot's  needs  must  be  a  thou- 
sand-fold 
Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 
The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world." 

To  which  a  mournful  answer  made  the 
Queen. 

' '  0  closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery- 
walls. 

What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and  all 
its  lights 

And  shadows,  all  the  wealth  and  all  tha 
woe  ? 

If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  knight, 

W  ere  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  himself, 


226 


GUINEVERB 


Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of 

fire, 
And  weep  for  her,  who  drew  him  to  his 

doom." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  little  novice,  "  I  pr<iy 

for  lioth  ; 
But  J  should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his, 
Sir  Lancelot's,  were  as  noble  as  the  King's, 
As   I    could  think,    sweet   lady,    yours 

would  be 
Such   as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful 

Queen." 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler,  Iiurt 
"Whom   .she  would  soothe,  and   harm'd 

where  .she  would  heal  ; 
For  here  a  sudden  flush  of  wrathful  heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who 

cried, 
"Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
For  ever !  thou  their  tool,  set  on  to  plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And   traitress."     When   that   storm  of 

anger  brake 
From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose. 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the 

Queen 
As  tremuhjusly  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a  wind,   ready  to  break  and 

fly, 

And  when  the  Queen  had  added  "get 

thee  hence  " 
Fled  frighted.     Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh'd,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again, 
Saying  in  herself   "the  simple,  fearful 

child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful 

guilt 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself. 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I  re|)ent. 
For   AV'hat   is   true   repentance    but    in 

thought  — 
Not  ev'n  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant 

to  us  : 
And  I  have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more, 
To  see  him  more." 

And  ev'n  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 
Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  fir.st,  when  Lance- 
lot came, 
Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest 

man, 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 


Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  ahead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they. 
Rapt  in  sweet  talk  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and   tilts  and  pleasure,   (foi 

the  time 
Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 

dream'd,) 
Rode  under  groves  that  look'd  a  paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem'd  the  heavens  upbreaking  thro 

the  eailh. 
And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ;  and  on  again. 
Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  thej 

saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship_ 
That  crown'd  the  state  pavilion  of  the 

King, 
Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent  well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such 

a  trance, 
And  moving  thro' the  past  tmconsciouslj'. 
Came  to  that  point  where  first  she  saw 

thte  King 
Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh'd  to 

find 
Her   journey    done,    glanced    at    him, 

thought  him  cold, 
High,  self-contain'd,  and  passionless,  not 

like  him, 
"Not   like   my  Lancelot" — while   she 

brooded  thus 
And  grew  half-guilty  in  her   thoughts 

again. 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 
A  murmuring  whisper  thro'  the  nunnei-y 

ran, 
Then  on  a  sudden  a  cry,  "the  King." 

She  sat 
StifF-stricken,  listening  ;  but  when  armed 

feet 
Thro'  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doore 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she 

fell, 
And  grovell'd  with  her  face  against  the 

floor  : 
There  with  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shad- 
owy hair 
She  made  her  face  a  darkness  from  the 

King : 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 
Pause  by  her  ;  then  came  silence,  thei^ 

a  voice. 


GUINEVERE. 


227 


Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a  Ghost's 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho'  changed 
the  King's. 

"Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of 

one 
I  honor'd,  happy,  dead  before  thy  shame  ? 
Well  is  it  tliat  no  chiM  is  born  of  thee. 
The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and 

fire, 
Red  luin,  and  the  breaking  u)i  of  laws, 
Tlic  craft  of  kindred  and  the  (Jodlessliosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o'er  the  Northern 

Sea. 
Whom   I,  while  yet   .Sir  Lancelot,  my 

right  arm. 
The  mightiest  of  my  knights,  abode  with 

me. 
Have  everywhere  about  this  landof  Clirist 
In   twelve   great   battles   ruining   over- 
thrown. 
And  knowest  tliou  now  from  whence  I 

come  —  from  him, 
From  waging  bitterwarwithliim  :  andhe. 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse 

way. 
Had  yet  that  grace  of  courtesy  in  him  left. 
He  spaj.ijdto  lifthis  handagainst  tlic  King 
Who   made   him  knight :   but   many  a 

knight  was  slain  ; 
An<l  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  own  land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  re- 
volt. 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a  remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I  leave  a  part. 
True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I 

live. 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on. 
Lest  butahair  of  this  low  head  beharm'd. 
Fear  not :  thou  shalt  be  guai'ded  till  my 

death. 
Howbeit  I  know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err'd  not,  tliat  I  march  to  meet  my 

doom. 
Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to  me, 
That  1  the  Kingshouldgreatly  care  tolive ; 
Fortliou  hastspoiltthe  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  wli  i  Ic  1  show, 
Ev'n  for  thy  .sake,  the  sin  which  thou  hast 

sinn'd. 
For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax'd  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fill'd  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a 

deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress'd  a  random  wrong. 


But  I  was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew 
The  knighthood-errant  of  tliis  realm  and 

all 
Therealmstogetlierundernie,  their  Head, 
In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 
A  glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men. 
To  serve  as  motlel  lor  the  mighty  world. 
And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a  time. 
I  made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and 

swear 
To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as 

their  King, 
To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the 

Christ, 
To  ride  nbroad  redressing  human  wrongs, 
To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it. 
To  lead  sweet  lives  in  ])urest  chastity. 
To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 
And  worshij)  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 
Until  they  won  her  ;  for  indeed  I  knew 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  lieaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  })assion  for  a  maid. 
Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man, 
But  teiich   high   thought,   and  amiable 

words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame. 
And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a 

man. 
Ami  all  this  throve  until  I  wedded  thee  ! 
Believing,  '  lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy.' 
Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lance- 
lot ; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  Isolt ; 
Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest 

knights. 
And   drawing  foul  ensample  from   fair 

names, 
Sinn'd  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain, 
And  all  thro'  thee !  .so  that  this  life  of 

mine 
I  guard  as  God's  high  gift  fiom  scathe 

and  wrong. 
Not  greatly  care  to  lose  ;  but  rather  think 
How  saditwerefor  Arthur,  should  he  live, 
To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  liall, 
And   miss  the  wonted  number   of  my 

knights, 
And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 
As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 
For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could 

speak 
Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at 

thee  ? 
And  in  thy  bowers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 


228 


GUINEVERE. 


Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room 

to  room, 
And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 
In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 
For  think  not,  tho'   thou  wouldst  not 

love  thy  lord, 
Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 
I  am  not  made  of  so  alight  elements. 
Yet  must  1  leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy 

shame. 
I  hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 
Who  either  for  his  own  or  children's  sake, 
To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the 

wife 
Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the 

house : 
For  being  thro'  his  cowardice  allow'd 
Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  })ure, 
She  like  a  new  disease,  unknown  to  men, 
Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the 

crowd, 
Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and 

saps 
The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the 

pulse 
With  devil's  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the 

young. 
Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that 

reigns  ! 
Better  the  King's  waste  hearth  and  aching 

heart 
Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light. 
The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their 

bane." 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept 
an  inch 
Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 
Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  warhorse 

neigh' d 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again. 

"Yet  think  not  that  I  come  to  urge 

thy  crimes, 
I  did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 
I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head. 
My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feec. 
The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on 

that  fierce  law. 
The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death, 
(When  first  I  learnt  thee  hidden  here)  is 

past. 
The  pang  —  which  while  1  weigh'd  thy 

heart  with  one 


Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee, 
Mademytearsburn  —  is  also  past,  in  part. 
And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn'd,  and  I, 
Lo  !  I  forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Foi'gives  :  do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the 

rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I  loved  ? 

0  golden  hair,  with  which  I  used  to  play 
Not  knowing !  0  imperial-moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore, 
Until  it  came  a  kingdom's  curse  with 

thee  — - 

1  cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine, 
But   Lancelot's  :   nay,  they  never  were 

the  King's. 
I  cannot  take  thy  hand  ;  that  too  is  flesh, 
And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn'd  ;  and 

mine  own  flesh, 
Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 
'  I  loathe  thee ' :  yet  not  less,  0  Guinevere, 
For  I  was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee, 
My  love  thro'  flesh  hath  wrought  into 

my  life 
So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  I  love  thee  still. 
Let  no  man  dream  Irat  that  I  love  thee  still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul, 
And  so  thou  lean  on  oiir  fair  father  Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and 

thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine, 

and  know 
I  am  thine  husband  —  not  a  smaller  soul, 
Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.     Leave  me 

that, 
I  charge  thee,  my  last  hope.     Now  must 

I  hence. 
Thro'  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet 

blow  : 
They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine 

hosts 
Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west. 
Where  I  must  strike  against  the  man 

they  call 
My  sister's  son  —  no  kin  of  mine,  who 

leagues 
With  lords  of  the  White  Horse,  heathen, 

and  kraghts  — 
Traitors — and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet 

myself 
Death,  or  I  know  not  what  mysterious 

doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the 

event ; 
But  hither  shall  I  never  come  again. 
Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more, 
Farewell ! " 


GUINEVERE. 


229 


'  And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door  I 
And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a  Hght 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  the  Queen.' 


And  while  she  grovell'd  at  his  feet, 
She  felt  the  King's  breath  wander  o'er 

iier  UL'ck, 
And  in  tiie  darkness  o'er  her  fallen  head, 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that 

blest. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps 

were  gone, 
Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish 

found 
The  casement:  "peradventure"  so  she 

thought, 
"  If  I  might  see  his  face,  and  not  be  seen." 
And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door.' 


And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a 

light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about 

the  Queen, 
To  guard  and  foster  her  for  evermore. 
And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm  waa 

lower'd, 
To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon  clung 
Of  Britain  ;  so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 
Which  then  was  as  an  angel's,  but  she  saw, 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the 

lights. 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a  steam  of 

fiie. 


230 


GUINEVEEE. 


And  even  then  he  turn'd  ;  and  more  and 

more 
The  moony  vapor  rolUng  round  the  King, 
Whoseem'd  the  phantom  of  a  Giant  in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,  and  made  him 

gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch'd  out  her  arms  and 
Qried  aloud 

"  0  Arthur  !  "  there  her  voice  brake  sud- 
denly, 

Then  —  as  a  stream  that  spouting  from  a 
clitf 

Fails  in  mid  air,  but  gathering  at  the  base 

Ee-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the 
vale  — 

Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

"Gone  —  my  lord  ! 
Gone  thro'  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain  ! 
And  he  foi  gave  me,  and  1  could  not  speak. 
Farewell  ?     I  should  have  answer'd  his 

farewell. 
His  mercy  choked  me.     Gone,  my  lord 

the  King, 
My  own  true  lord  !  how  dare  I  call  him 

mine  ? 
The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me. 
And  makes  me  one  pollution  :  he,  the 

King, 
Call'd  me  polluted  :  shall  I  kill  myself? 
What  help  in  that  ?    I  cannot  kill  my 

sin, 
If  soul  be  soul  ;  nor  can  I  kill  my  shame  ; 
No,  nor  by  living  can  I  live  it  down. 
The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks 

to  months, 
The  months  will  add  themselves  and  make 

the  years. 
The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries. 
And  mine  will  ever  be  a  name  of  scorn. 
I  must  not;  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 
Let   the  world  be  ;    that  is  but  of  the 

M'orld. 
What  else  ?  what  hope  ?   I  think  there 

was  a  hope. 
Except  he  mock'd  me  when  he  spake  of 

hope  ; 
Hishopehe  call'd  it ;  but  he  never  mocks, 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 
And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  for- 
given 
My  wickedness  to  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  I  can  live  down 


And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavenb 
Before  high  God.     Ah  great  and  gentle 

lord. 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a  saint 
Among     his    warring     senses,    to    thy 

knights  — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that 

took 
Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below, 
Would  not  look  up,  or  half-dSspised  ths 

height 
To  which  1  would  not  or   I  could  not 

climb  — 
I  thought  I  could  not  breathe  in  that  fine 

air 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  light  — 
1  wanted  wamith  and  color  which  I  found 
In  Lancelot  —  now  I  see  thee  what  thou 

art. 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human 

too, 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.   Is  there  none 
Will  tell  the  King  I  love  him  tho'  so 

late? 
Now  —  ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle  ? 

none  : 
]\Iyself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life. 
But  now  it  were  too  daring.  Ah  my  God, 
What  might  I  not  have  made  of  thy  fair 

world. 
Had   I  but  loved  thy  highest  creature 

here  ? 
It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  highest : 
It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I  known  : 
It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  1 

seen. 
We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when 

we  see  it. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another." 

Here  her  hand 
Grasp'd,  made   her  veil  her  eyes  :   she 

look'd  and  saw 
The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said 

to  her 
"  Yea,  littlemaid,  for  am  /not forgiven  ?" 
Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 
All  round  hei-,  weeping  ;  and  her  heart 

was  loosed 
Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these  and 

said. 

"Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one, 

who  broke 
The  vast  design  and  purpo.se  of  the  King, 
O  shut  me  round  with  narrowing  nun- 

nery-waUs, 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


231 


Jleek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 

'blianic.' 
1  must  not  scorn  myself :  he  loves  me 

still. 
Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me 

still. 
So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me 
Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with 

you  ; 
Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a  nun  like 

you  ; 
Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with 

your  feasts  ; 
Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at 

your  joys, 
But  not  rejoicing  ;  mingle  witli  your  rites; 
Pray  and  be  pray'd  for  ;  lie  before  your 

shrines  ; 
Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house  ; 
Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute 

dole 
To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  his  eyes 
Who  ransom'd  us,  and  haler  too  than  I  ; 
And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal 

mine  own  ; 
And  sowearoutinalmsdeed  and  in  prayer 
The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  day. 
Which  wiought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the 

King." 

She  said  :  they  took  her  to  themselves ; 
and  she 

Still  hoping,  fearing  '*  is  it  yet  too  late  ?" 

Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Ab- 
bess died. 

Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her  pure 
life. 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her. 

And  likewise  for  the  liigh  rank  she  had 
borne. 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess, 
lived 

For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Ab- 
bess, past 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is 
peace. 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the  k  nights. 
Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a 

voice 
In  the  white  Avinter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces,  other 

minds. 


Before  that  last  weird  balLle  in  the  west 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeidng,  Gawain 

kill'd 
In  Lancelot's  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain 

blown 
Along  a  wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling  "Hollow,  hollow  all  de- 
light ! 
Hail,   king  !   to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass 

away. 
Farewell!  there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee. 
And  I  am  blown  along  a  wandering  wind, 
And  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  all  delight." 
And  fainter  onward,  like  wild  birds  that 

change 
Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their 

way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind 

the  dream 
Shrill'd  ;  but  in  going  mingled  with  dim 

cries 
Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills, 
As  of  some  lonely  city  sack'd  by  night, 
When  all  is  lost,   and   wife  and  child 

with  wail 
Pass   to  new   lords  ;  and  Arthur  woke 

and  call'd, 
"Who  spake?    A  dream.     0  light  upon 

the  wind. 
Thine,    Gawain,    was    the    voice  —  are 

these  dim  cries 
Thine  ?   or   doth    all    that    haunts  the 

waste  and  wild 
llourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  with 

me  ?" 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and 

spake  : 
"0  me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever  will, 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the 

field; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory 

cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a  golden  cloud 
For  ever  :  but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in 

death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  gliost  is  as  the  man  ; 
And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him, 

but  rise  — 
I  hear  the  steps  of  Jlodred  in  the  west, 
And  with  him  many  of  thy  people  and 

knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but 

grosser  grown 
Than  heathen,    spitting  at  their   vows 

and  thee. 


232 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


Right  well  in  lieart  they  know  thee  for 

the  king. 
Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old." 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
"  Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  west 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  we  strove 

in  youth, 
And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 

wall, 
And  shook  him  thro'   the  north.      Ill 

doom  is  mine 
To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  him- 
self. 
And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me 

once,  the  stroke 
That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death 

to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a  way 
Thro'  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  1 

saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 
Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world." 

Then  rose  the  king  and  moved  his  host 

by  night, 
And  ever  push'd  Sir  Modred,  league  by 

league. 
Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesse  — 
A  land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ; 
Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples 

dwelt. 
And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a  coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a  moaning  sea. 
There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more. 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  king  ; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light 

of  heaven 
Burn'd  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year, 
On  the  waste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they 

closed. 
Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a  fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the 

west. 
A  deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea : 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed 

it,  drew 
Down  with  hi^  blood,  till  all  his  heart 

was  cold 
With  formless  fear  :  and  ev'n  on  Arthur 

fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he 

fought, 


For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  m  the 

mist, 
And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom 

he  slew  ; 
And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth, 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  gho.sts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle  ;  and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a  noble  deed,  nrany  a  base. 
And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in 

single  fights, 
And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the 

hard  mail  hewn. 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands, 

the  crash 
Of  battle-axes  on  shatter'd  helms,  and 

shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the 

mist ; 
And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor 

knights. 
Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blas- 
phemies. 
Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of 

the  lungs 
In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the 

light. 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  deathbed  afterwail 
Of  .sufteriug,  silence  follows,  or  thro'  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that 

shore. 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 
A  dead  hush  fell ;  but  when  the  dolorous 

day 
Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling, 

came 
A  bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and 

blew 
The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the 

tide 
Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across 

the  field 
Of  battle :  but  no  man  was  moving  there ; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon, 
Nor  yet  of  lieathen  ;  only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and 

down 
Tumbling  the  hollow   helmets,    of  the 

fallen. 
And  shiver'd  brands  that  once  had  fought 

with  Rome, 
And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


233 


Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere, 
And  whiterthanthemist  thatall  daylong 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  King : 

"Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 

shakes  the  world, 
And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon 

we  move, 
And  beats  upon  the  faces«of  the  dead, 
My  dead,  as  tho'  they  had  not  died  for 

me  ?  — 
0  Bedivere,  for  on  ray  heart  liath  fall'n 
Confusion,  till  1  know  not  what  I  am, 
Nor  whence  I  am,  nor  whether  1  be  king. 
Behold,  I  seem  but  king  among  the  dead." 

Then   spake  the   bold  Sir  Bedivere : 

"My  King, 
King  everywhere  !  and  so  the  dead  have 

kings. 
There  also  will  I  worship  thee  as  kin<x. 
Yet  still  thy  life  is  wliole,  and  still  I  live 
Who  love  thee  ;  but  who  hates  thee,  he 

that  brought 
The   heathen    back    among   us,   yonder 

stands, 
Modred,  unharm'd,  the  traitor  of  thine 

house." 

Then  spake  the  King :  "My  house  hath 

been  my  doom. 
But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roof 

with  me. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my 

vows. 
Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  own'd 

me  king. 
And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark  hour, 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath 

fail'd. 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for 

king. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry  ; 
And  onelastactofkinghoodshalt  thou  see 
Yet,  ere  1  pass."     And  uttering  this  the 

king 
Made  at  the  man  :  then  Modred  smote 

his  liege 
Hard  on  that  helm  which  many  a  heathen 

sword 
Had  beaten  thin ;  while  Arthur  at  one 

blow. 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 
Slew  him,  and  aU  but  slain  himself,  he 

£eU. 


So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roU'd 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  : 
Until  King  Arthur's  Table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fall'n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur.     Then,  because  his  wound 

was  deep. 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field; 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famousknights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such 

a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think 

that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly 

deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
1  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 
Tho'  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more ;  but  let  what  will  be, 

be. 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  thro'  the  helm 
That  without  help  1  cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  E.xcalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  reniem^ 

berest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an 

arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonder- 

ful, 
Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  row'd 

across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a 

king ; 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 
But  now  delay  not  :  take  Excalibur, 
And  fling  him  far  imo  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring 

me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee 

thus. 
Aidless,  alone,   and   smitten   thro'    the 

helm  -^ 
A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man  ; 


234 


THE   PASSING   OF  ARTHUK. 


Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perfomi  at  full, 
Watcli  what  1  see,  and  lightly  briug  thee 
word. " 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin'd  shrine  he 

stept. 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of 

tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient 

men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind 

sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He, 

stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  di'cw  he  forth  the  brand  Excali- 

bur. 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud, 

ran  forth 
And  sparkled   keen   with  frost  against 

the  hilt  : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 

sparks. 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind. 
In  act  to  throw  :  but  at  the  last  it  seem'd 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal'd 
There  in  the  many-knotted  wateiflags. 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the 

marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedi- 

vere : 
"  Hast  thou  perform'd  my  mission  which 

I  gave  ? 
What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast 

heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere  : 
"'  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag. " 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint 

and  pale  : 
"  Thou  hast  betray'd  thy  nature  and  thy 

name, 
Not  lendering  true  answer,  as  heseem'd 
Thy  fiialty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  foUow'd,  either  hand, 


Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mete. 
Tliis  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again. 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 
word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  tima 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the 

mere,  * 
Counting   the    dewy  pebbles,    fix'd    in 

thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt, 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 

smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  jirecious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  for  ever  from  the 

earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of 

many  men. 
AVhat  good  should  follow  this,  if  this 

weie  done  ? 
What   hanii,   undone  ?    Deep   harm   to 

disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  akingdemand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself  ? 
The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what 

he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftcrtime,  but  empty  bi-eath 
And  lumors  of  a  doubt  ?    But  were  this 

kept. 
Stored  ii)  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 

kings, 
Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of 

arms. 
Saying,  'King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the 

Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the 

deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.* 
So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the 

aftertime 
To  all  the  peojile,  winning  reverence. 
But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame 

were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded   Avith  his   own 

conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 
And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 

King. 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 


235 


Then   spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing 
heavily  : 
"  \Vhat  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?   or  what 
hast  heard  ? " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere  : 
'  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
Ajidthe  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much 

in  wrath  : 
-'Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-huarted  !  Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  I'orgets  a  dying  king. 
Laid  widow'd  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow'd  the  will.     I  see  thee  what 

thou  art. 
For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  olfices  of  all. 
Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 

hilt  ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  jileasure  of  the  eyes. 
Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 
And  the  third  time  may  prosper,   get 

thee  hence  : 
But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 
I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran. 
And,  leaping  down   the  ridges  lightly, 

plunged 
Amowg  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch'd 

the  sword, 
And  strongly  wheel'd  and  threw  it.  The 

great  brand 
Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the 

moon. 
And    flashing    round    and    round,    and 

whirl'd  in  an  arch, 
Shot  like  astreamerof  the  northernmorn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter 

shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 
So  flash'd  and  fell  the  brand  E.Kcalibur  : 
But  ere  he  dijit  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brau- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 

mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then   spoke   King    Arthur,    drawing 
thicker  breath : 


"Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  isdone. 
Speak  out  :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard, 
or  seen  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 
vere : 
"  Sir  King,   I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest 

the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  orelsewliere,  till  1  die, 
Not  tho'  1  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then   with   both    hands   I    flung   him, 

wheeling  him  ; 
But  v.hen  1  look'd  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  won- 
derful. 
That  caught  hinr  by  the  hilt,  and  bran- 

dish'd  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breath- 
ing hard  : 

"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  't  is  time  that  I 
were  gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 
weight. 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall 
die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half 

rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.      Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  rt^garded  thro'  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found 

not  words  ; 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on 

one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 

hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  thro'  the  place  of 

tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk'd,  King  Arthur  panted 

hard. 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sigh'd 

the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring   at   his   ear 

"Quick,  quick  ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die. " 
But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge 

to  ridge. 


236 


THE   PASSING   OF  ARTHUR. 


Cloth' d  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as 

he  walk'd. 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a 

cry 
Before.    His  own  thought  drove  him  like 

a  goad. 
Dry  clash'd  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and 

right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang'd  round  him, 

as  he  based 
Hi?  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp -smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed 

heels  — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 

barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms, 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream 

■ —  by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  :  and 

from  them  rose 
A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars. 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one 

comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the 

woi'ld. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,    "Place  me 

in  the  barge  "  ; 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 
But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 
And   loosed   the   shatter'd  casque,   and 

chafed  his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  :  for  all  his  face 

was  white 
And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither' d  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd 

with  di'ops 


Of  onset ;  and   the   light  and  lustrous 

curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were  parch'd 

with  dust ; 
Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd   with  the   knightly  growth   that 

fringed  his  lips. 
So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shotthro'  thelistsatCamelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedi- 

vere  : 
' '  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I 

go? 
Wher^  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes  ? 
For  no""  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  eveiy  morning  brought  a  noble 

chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble 

knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

th.-t  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dis- 
solved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 
And  the  daj'^s  darken  round  me,  and  the 

j'-irs, 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other 

minds." 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 

barge  : 
' '  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place 

to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 
Comfort  thyself  :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I 

have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but 

thou. 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray  for   my  soul.      More   things  are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Thau  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore^ 

let  thy  voice 
Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and 

day. 


THE   PASSING   OF   ARTHUR. 


237 


For  wLut  are  men  better  than  sheep  or 
goats 

Thiit  nourish  a  bliud  life  within  the 
brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 
prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call 
them  fiicnd  ? 

For  so  the  whole  roand  earth  is  every 
way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of 
God. 

But  now  farewell.  I  am  going  a  long 
way 

With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a 
doubt)  — 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Whore  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

jSTor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 

Deep-meadow'd,  hapjiy,  fair  with  orchard- 
lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  sum- 
mer sea, 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  giievous 
wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and 
sail 

Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death. 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes 
the  flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir 
Bedivere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 

Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge 
of  dawn. 

Ana  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away.  / 


At   length   he   groan'd,  and    turning 

slowly  clomb 
The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag  ; 
Thence  mark'd  the  black  hull  moving 

yet,  and  cried, 
"  He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead. 
And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 
He  comes  again  ;  but  —  if  he  come  nc 

more  — 
0  me,  be  j'on  dark  Queens  in  yon  black 

boat. 
Who  shriek'd  and  wail'd,  the  three  whereat 

we  gazed 
On  that  high  day,   when,  clothed  with 

living  light. 
They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence, 

friends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his 

need  ? " 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there 
came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,   as  if  some  fair   city  were  one 

voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about, 

and  clomb 
E'en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and 

saw, 
Straininghiseyesbeneathanarchofhand, 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare 

the  king, 
Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 
And  the  new  sun  ro-i<^  bringing  the  new 

year. 


238 


THE   PRINCESS:    A   MEDLEY. 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY 


HENRY    LUSHINGTON 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED  BY  HIS  FRIEND 

A.   TENNYSON, 


PROLOGUE. 

SiK  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's  day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of  sun 
Up  to  the  people  :  thitlu^r  flock'd  at  noon 
His  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and  thither 

half 
The  neighboring  borough  with  their  In- 
stitute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.     I  was  there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son,  —  the  son 
A  Walter  too,  —  with  others  of  our  set. 
Five  others  :  we  were  seven  at  Vivian- 
place. 

And  me  that  morning  Walter  show'd 

the  house, 
Greek,  set  with  busts  :  from  vases  in  the 

hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier  than 

their  names, 
Grew  side  by  side  ;  and  on  the  pavement 

lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the 

park, 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones  of 

Time  : 
And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together  ;  celts  and  calumets. 
Claymore  andsnowshoe,  toys  in  lava,  fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries. 
Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere. 
The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle- 
clubs 
From  the  isles  of  palm  :  and  higher  on 

the  walls, 
Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk  and 

deer, 
Hisown  forefathers'  arms  and  arm  or  hung. 

And  "this"  he  said  "was  Hugh's  at 
Aginccr.rt  ; 
And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph's  at  Ascalon  : 


A  good  knight  he  !  we  keep  a  chronicle 
With  all  about  him"  —  which  he  brought, 

and  I 
Dived  in  a  hoard  of  tales  that  dealt  with 

knights 
Half-legend,    half-historic,    counts    and 

kings 
Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and 

died  ; 
And  mixt  with  these,  a  lady,  one  that 

arm'd 
Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro'  the 

gate, 
Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls. 

"0  miracle  of  women,"  said  the  book, 
"0  noble  heart  who,  being  strait -be  sieged 
By  this  wildkiug  to  force  her  to  his  wish, 
Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn'd  a  sol- 
dier's death, 
But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem'd  as 

lost  — 
Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the  burst 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire — ■ 
Brake  with  a  blast  of  trumpets  from  the 

gate, 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a  thunderbolt, 
She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses' 

heels. 
And  some  were  whelm'd  with  missiles  oi 

the  wall, 
And  some  were  push'd  with  lances  from 

the  rock, 
And  part  were  drown'd  within  the  whirl- 
ing brook  : 
0  miracle  of  noble  womanhood  !  " 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle; 
And,  I  all  rapt  in  this,  "Come  out,"  he 

said, 
"  To  the  Abbey  :  there  is  Aunt  Elizabeth 
And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest. "   We  went 


THE   PRINCESS :   A    MEDLEY. 


239 


(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 
Down  thro'  the  park  :  strange  was  the 

sight  to  me  ; 
For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murnmr'd, 

sown 
With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 
There  moved  the  multitude,  a  thousand 

heads : 
The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institiite 
Taught  them  with  fiicts.     One  rear'd  a 

font  of  stone 
And  drew,  from  buttsof  waterontheslope. 
The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing  now 
A  twisted  snake,  and  now  a  rain  of  pearls. 
Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded  liall 
Danced  like  a  wisp  :  and  somewhat  low- 
er down 
A  man  with  knobs  and  wires  and  vials 

fired 
A  cannon  :  Echo  answer'd  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields  :  and  here  were  tele- 
scopes 
For  azure  views  ;  and  there  a  group  of 

girls 
In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 
Dislink'd   with   shrieks   and   laughter  : 

round  the  lake 
Alittle  clock-work  steamer  paddling  plied 
And  shook  the  lilies  :  perch'd  about  the 

knolls 
A  dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam  : 
A  petty  railway  ran  :  a  fire-balloon 
Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky  groves 
And  dropt  a  fairy  parachute  and  past  : 
And  there  thro'  twenty  posts  of  telegraph 
They  flash'd  a  saucy  message  to  and  fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations ;  so  that  sport 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  Science  ;  other- 
where 
Pure  sport  :  a  herd  of  boys  with  clamor 

bowl'd 
And  stump'd  the  wicket  ;  babies  roll'd 

about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass  ;  and  men 

and  maids 
Arranged  a  country  dance,  and  flew  thro' 

light 
And  shadow,  while  the  twangling  violin 
Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and  over- 
head 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from 
end  to  end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking  of 
the  time  ; 
And  long  we  gazed,  but  satiated  at  length 


Came  to  the  ruins.     High-arch'd  and  ivy- 

claspt, 
Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a  fire, 
Thro'  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost 

they  gave 
The  park,  tlie  crowd,  the  house  ;  but  all 

within 
The  sward  was  trim  as  any  garden  lawn : 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizalieth, 
And  Liliawith  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From   neighbor  seats :    and   there   was 

Raljih  himself, 
A  broken  statue  ]iropt  against  the  wall, 
.\s  .(;ay  as  any.     Lilia,  wild  with  sport,. 
Half  child  half  woman  as  she  was,  had 

wound 
A  scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm. 
And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a  rosy  silk. 
That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied 

nook 
Glow  like  a  .sunbeam  :  near  his  tomb  a 

feast 
Shone,  silver-set ;  about  it  lay  the  guests. 
And    there  we   join'd  them  :   then   the 

maiden  Aunt 
Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it 

preach'd 
An  universal  culture  for  the  crowd. 
And  all  things  great ;  but  we,  unwor- 

thier,  told 
Of  college  :   he  had   climb'd  across  the 

spikes. 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt 

the  bars. 
And  he  had  breath'd  the  Proctor's  dogs  ; 

and  one 
Discuss'd  his  tutor,  rough  to   common 

men. 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a  lord  ; 
And  one  the  Master,  as  a  rogue  in  grain 
Veneer'd  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But   while   they  talk'd,    above   their 

heads  1  saw 
The   feudal   warrior    lady-clad ;    which 

brought 
My  book  to  mind  :   and  opening  this  I 

read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a  page  or  two  that  rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney  ;  then  the  tale  of  her 
Tliat  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter  from 

her  walls, 
And  much  I  praised  her  nobleness,  and 

"  Where," 
Ask'd  Walter,  patting  Lilia'shead  (she  lay 
Beside  him)  ' '  lives  there  such  ?  woman 

now  ? " 


240 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


Quick  answer'd  Lilia  "  There  are  thou- 
sands now 
Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them 

clown  : 
It  is  but  bringing  up ;  no  more  than  that : 
You  men  have  done  it ;  how  I  liate  you  all ! 
Ah,  were  1  something  great !  I  wish  I  were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  I  would  shame  you 

then, 
That  love  to  keep  us  children  !   0  I  wish 
That  I  were  some  great  princess,  I  would 

build 
Far  off  from  men  a  college  like  a  man's. 
And  I  would  teach  tliem  all  that  men  are 

taught ; 
We  are  twice  as  quick  !  "     And  here  she 

shook  aside 
The  hand  that  play'd  the  patron  with 

her  curls. 

And  one  said  smiling  "  Pretty  were  the 

sight 
If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex, 

and  flaunt 
With  piTides  for  proctors,  dowagers  for 

deans. 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden 

hair. 
I  think  they  should  not  wear  our  nisty 

gowns, 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths,  or 

Ealph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner  ;  yet  I  fear. 
If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood. 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the 

nest, 
Some  boy  would  spy  it." 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal'd  foot  : 
"That's  your  light  way  ;  but  I  would 

make  it  death 
For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us." 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself  she 

laugh' d  ; 
A  rosebud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns, 
And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make 

her,  she  : 
But  Walter  hail'd  a  score  of  names  upon 

her. 
And  "petty  Ogi-ess,"  and  "ungrateful 

Puss," 
And   swore  he   long'd   at  college,  only 

long'd, 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 
They  boated  and  they  cricketed  ;  they 

talk'd 


At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics  ; 

They  lost thejr weeks;  theyvextthesouls 
of  deans  ; 

They  rode  ;  they  betted  ;  made  a  hun- 
dred friends. 

And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying 
terms. 

But  miss'd  the  mignonette  of  Vivian- 
place, 

The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.     Thus  he 
spoke, 

Part  banter,  part  aS"ection. 

"Tnie,"  she  said, 

"  We  doubt  not  that.     0  yes,  you  miss'd 
us  much. 

I  '11  stake   my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you 
did." 

She  held  it  out ;  and  as  a  parrot  turns 
Up  thro'  gilt  wires  a  crafty  loving  eye. 
And  takes  a  lady's  finger  with  all  care, 
And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for 

harm. 
So  he  with  Lilia's.     Daintily  she  shriek'd 
And  wrung  it.   ' '  Doubt  my  word  again  ! " 

he  said. 
"Come,  listen  !  here  is  proof  that  you 

were  miss'd : 
We  seven  stay'd  at  Christmas  up  to  read  ; 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to  read  : 
The  hard-gi-ain'd  Muses  of  the  cube  and 

square 
Were  out  of  season  :  never  man,  I  think, 
So  moukler'd  in  a  sinecure  as  he  : 
For  while  our  cloisters  echo'd  frosty  feet, 
And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare 

as  brooms. 
We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you 

all 
In  wassail ;  often,  like  as  many  girls  — 
Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of  home  — 
As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  —  play'd 
Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas  here, 
And  wlmt  's  my  thought  and  wheii  and 

tvherc  and  ho2v, 
And  often  told  a  tale  from  mouth  to  mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas." 

She  remember'd  that : 
A  pleasant  game,  she  thought  :  she  liked 

it  more 
Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the  rest. 
But  these  —  what  kind  of  tales  did  men 

tell  men. 
She  wonder'd,  by  themselves  ? 

A  half-disdain 
Perch'donthe  pouted  blossom  of  her  lips : 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me  ;   "He  began, 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


241 


The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn  ;  and 

so 
We  forged  a  sevenfold  story.     Kind  ? 

what  kind  ? 
Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmassolecisms, 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to  kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter." 

"  Kill  him  now. 
The  tyrant !    kill  him  in  the  summer 

too," 
Said  Lilia  ;  ' '  Why  not  now, "  the  maiden 

Aunt. 
"  Why  not  a  summer's  as  a  winter's  tale  ? 
A  tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time. 
And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the 

place 
Heroic,  for  a  hero  lies  beneath. 
Grave,  solemn  ! " 

Walter  warp'd  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that   I 

laugh'd 
And  Lilia  woke  with   sudden-shrilling 

mirth 
An  echo  Uke  a  ghostly  woodpecker. 
Hid  in  the  ruins  ;  till  the  maiden  Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch'd  her 

face 
With  color)  turn'd  to  me  with  "As  you 

will ; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will, 
Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will." 
"  Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine  "  clam- 
or'd  he, 
"And  make  her  some  great  Princess,  six 

feet  high, 
Grand,  epic,  homicidal ;  and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her  !  " 

"  Then  follow  me,  the  Prince," 
I  answer'd,  "each  be  hero  in  his  turn  ! 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a 

dream.  — 
Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  required  — 
But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time 

and  place, 
A  Gothic  ruin  and  a  Grecian  house, 
A  talk  of  college  and  of  ladies'  rights, 
A  feudal  kiiight  in  silken  masquerade, 
/Vnd,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  exper- 
iments 
For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had  burnt 

them  all  — 
This  locrc  a  medley  !  we  should  have  him 

back 
Who  told  the  '  Winter's  tale '  to  do  it 

for  us. 
No  matter  :  we  will  say  whatever  comes. 
And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 


From  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a  song 
To  give  us  breathing-space." 

So  1  began, 
Andtherestfollow'd :  and  the  women  sang 
Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men. 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind : 
And  here  I  give  the  story  and  the  songs- 


\. 


A  PRINCE  I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in 

face. 
Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ri  >iglets,  like  a  girl, 
For  on  mycradle  shone  the  Northern  star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our 

house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a  far-off  grandsire 

burnt 
Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold, 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood  should 

know 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that 

one 
Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and 

to  fall. 
For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 
And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or 

less. 
An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the  house. 
Myself  too  had  weird  seizures.  Heaven 

knows  what  : 
On  a  sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day. 
And  while  1  walk'd  and  talk'd  as  here- 
tofore, 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts, 
And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
Ourgreat  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt-head 

cane, 
^nd   paw'd    his    beard,    and   rautter'd 

"catalepsy." 
My   mother  pitying   made  a  thousand 

prayers  ; 
My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint. 
Half-canonized  by  all  that  look'd  on  her. 
So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tenderness  : 
Rut  my  good  father  thought  a  king  a 

king; 
He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  tfie  house ; 
He  held  his  sceptre  like  a  pedant's  wand 
To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms  and 

hands 
Reach'd  out,  and  pick'd  offenders  from 

the  mass 
For  judgment. 


242 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


ITow  it  chanced  that  I  had  been, 
While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade,  be- 

troth'd 
To  one,  a  neighboring  Princess  :  she  to  me 
Was  proxy-wedded  with  a  bootless  calf 
At  eight  years  old  ;  and  still  from  time 

to  time 
Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from  the 

South, 
And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puissance ; 
And  still  I  wore  her  picture  by  my  heart, 
And  one  dark  tress  ;  and  all  around  them 

both 
Sweetthoughts  would  swarm  as  bees  about 

their  queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I 

should  wed. 
My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  furs 
And  jewels,  gifts,  to  fetch  her  :    these 

brought  back 
A  present,  a  great  labor  of  the  loom  ; 
A.nd  therewithal    an   answer  vague   as 

wind  : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king  ;  he  took  the 

gifts  ; 
He  said  there  was  a  compact ;  that  was 

true  : 
But  then  she  had  a  will ;  was  he  to  blame  ? 
And  maiden  fancies  ;  loved  to  live  alone 
A.mong  her  women  ;  certain,  would  not 

wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room  I 

stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two 

friends  : 
The  first,  a  gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father's  fnult)  but  given  to  starts 

and  bursts 
Of  revel ;  and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 
And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we  moved 
Together,  twinn'd  as  horse's  ear  and  eye.' 

Now,  while   they   spake,    I    saw   my 

father's  face 
Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a  rising  moon, 
Inflamed  with  wrath  ;  he  started  on  his 

feet. 
Tore  the  king's  letter,  snow'd  it  down, 

and  rent 
The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro'  warp  and 

woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt  ;  and  at  the  last  he 

sware 
That  he  would  send  a  hundred  thousand 

men. 


And  bring  her  in  a  whirlwind  .  tlien  he 

chew'd 
The   thrice-turn'd   cud   of   wrath,    and 

cook'd  his  spleen. 
Communing  with  his  captains  of  the  war. 

At  last  I  spoke.     ' '  My  father,  let  me 

go- 
It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a  king. 
Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hospi 

table  : 
Or,  maybe,  I  myself,  my  bride  once  seen, 
Whate'er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than 

fame. 
May  rue  the  bargain  made, "     And  Flo- 
rian said  : 
"  1  have  a  sister  at  the  foreign  court, 
Who  moves  about  the   Princess  ;   she, 

j'ou  know. 
Who  wedded  with   a    nobleman   from 

thence  : 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I  hear. 
The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land  : 
Thro'   her  this  matter  might  be  sifted 

clean." 
And  Cyril  whisper'd  :   "Take  me  with 

you  too." 
Then   laughing    "what,  if  these  weird 

seizures  come 
Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one  near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the 

truth  ! 
Take  me  :  I  '11  serve  you  better  in  a  strait ; 
I   grate   on   rusty   hingee    here "  :   but 

"No  !" 
Roar'd  the  rough  king,  ' '  you  shall  not ; 

we  ourself 
Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies  dead 
In  iron  gauntlets  :  break  the  council  up." 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I  rose  and 
past 

Thro'  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the 
town  ; 

Found  a  still  place,  and  j)luck'd  her  like- 
ness out ; 

Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch' d  it  lying 
bathed 

In  the  green  gleam  ofdewy-tassell'd  trees : 

AVhat  were  those  fancies  ?  wherefore  break 
her  troth  ? 

Proud  look'd  the  lips  :  but  while  I  medi- 
tated 

A  wind  arose  and  rush'd  upon  the  South, 

And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and 
the  shrieks 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


243 


Of  tliG  ^x-ilcl  woods  together  ;  and  a  Voice 
Went  with  it,  "Follow,  follow,  thoushalt 
win." 

Then,  ere  thesilver  sickle  of  that  month 
Became  lujr  golden  shield,  I  stole  from 

court 
With  Cyriland  with  Florian,unperceived, 
Cat-footed   thro'  the  town  and   half  in 

dread 
To  hear  my  father's  clamor  at  our  backs 
With  Ho  !  from  some  bay-window  shake 

the  night  ; 
But  all  was  ^uiet  :  from  the  bastiou'd 

walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  we 

dropt, 
And  flying  reach'd  the  frontier  :  then  we 

crost 
To  a  livelier  land  ;  and  so  by  tilth  and 

grange, 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wilder- 
ness, 
"We  gain'd  the  mother-city  thick  with 

towers. 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the  king. 

His  name  was  Gama  ;  crack'dand  small 
his  voice, 

But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a  wrink- 
ling wind 

On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines  ; 

A  little  dry  old  man,  without  a  star. 

Not  likeaking  :  tiiree  days  hefeasted  us. 

And  on  the  fourth  I  spake  of  why  we 
came. 

And  mybetroth'd.  "You  do  us,  Prince," 
he  said, 

Airing  a  snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 

' '  All  honoi-.   We  remember  love  ourselves 

In  our  sweet  youth  :  there  did  a  com- 
pact pass 

Long  summers  back,  a  kind  of  cere- 
mony — 

1  think  tile  year  in  which  our  olives  fail'd. 

1  would  you  had  her.  Prince,  %vith  all 
my  iieart. 

With  my  full  iieart  :  but  there  were 
widows  here, 

Two  widows,  Lady  Psyche,  Lady  Blanche; 

They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of  place 

Maintaining  tliat  with  equal  husbandry 

The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp'd  on  this  ;  with  this  our  ban- 
quets rang  ; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz'd  in  knots  of 
talk; 


Nothing  but  this  ;  my  very  ears  were  hot 
To  hear  them  :  knowledge,  so  my  daugh- 
ter held. 
Was  all  in  all  :  they  had  but  been,  she 

thought. 
As  children  ;  they  must  lose  the  child, 

assume 
The  woman  :  then.  Sir,  awful  odes  slie 

wrote. 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated  of. 
But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful  ;  odes 
Abontthislosing  of  the  child  ;  and  rhymes 
.Vnd  dismal  lyrics,  ])rophes}ang  change 
Beyond  all  reason  :  these  the  women  sang ; 
And   they  that   know  such   things  —  1 

sought  but  jieace  ; 
No  critic  I  —  would  call  them  master- 
pieces : 
They  master'd  me.    At  last  she  begg'd  a 

boon 
A  certain  summer-palace  which  I  have 
Hard  by  your  father's  frontier  :  I  said  no, 
Yet  beingan  easy  man,  gave  it :  and  there. 
All  wild  to  found  an  University 
For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  tied  ;  and 

more 
We  know  not,  —  only  this  :  they  see  no 

men. 
Not  ev'n  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho'  they  love  her,  look 

upon  her 
As  on  a  kind  of  paragon  ;  and  I 
(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loath 

to  breed 
Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine  :  but 

since 
(And  I  confess  with  right)  you  think  me 

bound 
In  some  sort,  I  can  give  you  letters  toher ; 
And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  rate  your 

chance 
Almost  at  naked  nothing." 

Thus  the  king ; 
And  I,  tho'  nettled  that  he  seem'd  to  slui 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courtesies 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all 

frets . 
But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my  bride; 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends. 

We  rode 
Many  a  long  league  back  to  the  North. 

At  last 
From  hills,  that  look'd  across  a  land  of 

hope. 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a  rustic  town 
Set  in  a  gleaming  river's  crescent-curve, 
Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  libei'ties  ; 


244 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


There,  enter' J  an  old  hostel,  call'd  mine 

host 
To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest 

wines, 
And  show'd  the  late-WTit  letters  of  the 

king. 

He  with  a  long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as  death  in  marble  ;  then  ex- 

claim'd 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go  :  but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  "  If  the  king,"  he  said, 
"  Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound  to 

speak  ? 
The  king  would  bear  him  out "  ;  and  at 

the  last  — 
The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his  veins  — 
"  No  doubt  that  we  might  make  it  worth 

his  while. 
She  once  had  past  that  way  ;  he  heard 

her  speak  ; 
Shescaredhim  ;  life  !  henever.sawthelike; 
She  look'd  as  grand  as  doomsday  and  as 

grave  : 
And  he,  he  re  verenced  his  liege-lady  there ; 
He  always  made  a  point  to  post  with  mares ; 
His  daughter  and  his   housemaid  were 

the  boys  : 
The  land,  he  understood,  for  miles  about 
Was  till'd  by  women  ;  all  the  swine  were 

sows. 
And  all  the  dogs  "  — 

But  while  he  jested  thus, 
Athoughtflash'dthro'  me  which  I  clothed 

in  act, 
Remembering  how  we   three   presented 

Maid 
Or  Njanph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of 

feast, 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father's  court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female 

gear  ; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  asight  to  shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter,  holp 
To  lace  us  up,  till,  each,  in  maiden  plumes 
We  rustled  :  him  we  gave  a  costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good 

steeds, 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow'd  up  the  river  as  we  rode, 
And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  college 

lights 
Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley  :  then  we  past  an  arch, 
Whereon  a  woman-statue  rose  with  wings 


From  four  wing'd   horses  dark   against 

the  stars  ; 
And  some  inscription  ran  along  the  front, 
But  deep  in  shadow  :  further  on  we  gain'd 
A  little  street  half  garden  and  half  house ; 
But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak 

for  noise 
Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  ham- 
mers falling 
On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 
Of  fountains  spouted  up  and  showering 

down 
In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose  : 
And  all  about  us  peal'd  the  nightingale, 
Kapt  in  her  song,  andcarelessof  thesnare. 

There  stood  a  bust  of  Pallas  for  a  sign, 
By  two  sphere  lamps  blazon'd  like  Heaven 

and  Earth 
With  constellation  and  with  continent. 
Above  an  entry  :  riding  in,  we  call'd  ; 
A  plump-aiTii'd  Ostleress  and  a  stable 

wench 
Came  running  at  the  call,  and  help'd  us 

down. 
Then  stept  a  buxom  hostess  forth,  and 

sail'd. 
Full-blown,  before  us  into  rooms  which 

gave 
Upon  a  pillar'd  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel  :  her  we  ask'd  of  that  and  this, 
And  who  were  tutors.    ' '  Lady  Blanche ' 

she  said, 
"And    Lady   Psyche."     "Which    was 

prettiest, 
Best-natured  ? "  '' Lady  Psyche."  "Hers 

are  we," 
One  voice,  we  cried  ;  and  I  sat  down  and 

wrote. 
In  such  a  hand  as  when  a  iield  of  corn 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East ; 

"  Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire 

pray 
Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with 

your  own, 
As  Lady  Psyche's  pupils." 

This  I  seal'd  • 
The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a  scroll. 
And  o'er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung, 
And  raised  the  blinding  bandage  from 

his  eyes  : 
I  gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn  ; 
And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I 

seem'd 
To  float  about  a  glimmering  night,  and 

watch 


THF    PllINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


245 


A  full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moonlight, 

swell 
On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it  was 

rich. 


As  thro*  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
O  we  fell  out  1  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  W(!  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears  ! 
For  when  we  cams  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 


II. 

Arbreak  of  day  the  College  Portresscame : 
She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a  silken  hood  to  each. 
And  zoned  with  gold  ;  and  now  when 

these  were  on, 
And  we  as  rich  as  mot  lis  from  dusk  cocoons. 
She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us  know 
The  Princess  Ida  waited  :  out  we  paced, 
1  fcrst,  and  following  thro'  the  porch  that 

sang 
All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a  court 
Compact  with  lucid  marbles,  boss'd  with 

lengths 
Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings  gay 
Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great  urns 

of  flowers. 
The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group'd  in 

threes, 
Enring'd  a  billowing  foimtain  in  the  midst ; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 
Or  book  or  lute  ;  but  hastily  we  past. 
And  up  a  flight  of  staii-s  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a  board  by  tome  and  paper  sat. 
With  two  tame  leopards  couch'd  beside 

her  throne 
All  beauty  compass'd  in  a  female  form. 
The  Princess  ;  liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  Sun, 
Than  our  man's  earth  ;  such  eyes  were 

in  her  head, 
And  so  much  grace  ana  power,  breathing 

down 


From  over  her  arcli'd  brows,  with  every 

turn 
Lived  fiiro'  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long 

hands. 
And  to  lier  feet.     She  rose  hei  height, 

and  said : 

"  We  give  you  welcome  :  not  without 

redound 
Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come, 
The  tirst-fruits  of thestranger :  aftertime, 
And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round 

the  grave. 
Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with 

me. 
What !  are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so  tall  ? " 
"  We  of  the  court "  said  Cyril.     "From 

the  court " 
Sheanswer'd, ' '  then yeknow  the  Prince  ?" 

and  he  : 
"The  climax  of  his  age  !  astho'  there  were 
One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  Highness 

that. 
He  worships  your  ideal"  :  she  replied  : 
"We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall 

to  hear 
This  barren  verbiage,  current  aniongmen, 
Lightcoin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compliment. 
Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless  wilds 

would  seem 
As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of 

power ; 
Y^our  language  proves  you  still  the  child. 

Indeed, 
We  dream  not  of  him  :  when  we  set  our 

hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with 

ourself 
Never  to  wed.  You  likewise  will  do  well, 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and  fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men, 

that  so. 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will. 
You  may  with  those  self-styled  our  lordt 

ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,   scale 

with  scale." 

At  those  high  words,  we  conscious  of 

ourselves, 
Perused  the  matting  ;  then  an  officer 
Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as 

these  : 
Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with 

home  ; 
Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liberties  ; 
Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any  men  , 


246 


THE   PRINCESS  :    A   MEDLEY. 


And   many   more,    which    hastily   sub- 
scribed, 
We  enter'd  on  the  boards  :  and  "  Now  " 

she  cried 
"Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not. 

Look,  our  hall ! 
Our  statues  !  —  not  of  those  that  men 

desire. 
Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode. 
Nor  stunted  squaws  of  "West  or  East ;  but 

she 
That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule,  and 

she 
The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall, 
The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war, 
The  Khodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 
Glelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 
That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman 

brows 
Of  Agrippina.    Dwell  with  these,  and  lose 
Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble  forms 
Makes  noble  thro'  the  sensuous  organism 
That  which  is  higher.     0  lift  your  na- 
tures up : 
Embrace  our  aims  :  work  out  your  free- 
dom.    Girls, 
Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a  fountain 

seal'd  : 
Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the  slave, 
The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 
And  slander,  die.     Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.     Leave  us  :  you  may 

go: 
To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before  ; 
For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provinces, 
And  fill  the  hive." 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal  :  back  again  we  crost  the  court 
To  Lady  Psyche's  :  as  we  enter'd  in, 
There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morning 

doves 
That  sun   their  milky  bosoms  on   the 

thatch, 
A  patient  range  of  pupils  ;  she  herself 
Erect  behind  a  desk  of  satin-wood, 
A  quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon- 
eyed. 
And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she  look'd. 
Of  twenty  summers.    At  her  left,  a  child. 
In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a  star, 
Her  maiden  babe,  a  double  April  old, 
Aglaia  slept.  We  sat  :  the  Lady  glanced  : 
Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the 

dame 
That  whisper'd  "Asses'  ears  "  among  the 
sedge, 


* '  My  sister. "    "  Comely  too  by  all  that  "s 

fair" 
Said  Cyril.     "  0  hush,  hush  !  "  and  she 

began. 

"  This  world  was  once  a  fluid  haze  of 

light. 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry  tides. 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling  cast 
The  planets  :  then  the  monster,  then  the 

man  ; 
Tattoo'd  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in  skins, 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing  down 

his  mate  ; 
As  yet  we  iind  in  barbarous  isles,  and  here 
Among  the  lowest." 

Thereupon  she  took 
A  bird's-eye-view  of  all  the  ungracious 

past ; 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a  nobler  age  ; 
Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of 

those 
That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucumo  ; 
Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman 

lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman's  state  in  each. 
How  far  from  just ;  till  warming  with 

her  theme 
She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  lawsSali([ue 
And  little-footed  China,  touch'd  on  Ma- 
homet 
With  much  contempt,  and  came  to  chiv- 
alry : 
When  some  respect,  however  slight,  was 

paid 
To  woman,  superstition  all  awry  : 
However  then  commenced  the  dawn  :  a 

beam 
Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a  land 
Of  promise  ;  fruit  would  follow.     Deep, 

indeed. 
Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first  had 

dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 
Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and 

assert 
None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that 

which  made 
Woman  and  man.     She  had  founded  5 

they  must  build. 
Here   might  they  learn  whatever  men 

were  taught : 
Let  them  not  fear  :  some  said  their  heads 

were  less : 
Some  men's  were  small ;  not  they  tho 

least  of  men  ; 


THE   PRINCESS  :    A   MEDLEY. 


247 


For  often  fineness  compensated  size  : 
Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand,  and 

grew 
With  using ;  thence  the  man's,  if  more 

was  more  ; 
He  took  advantage  of  liis  strength  to  be 
First  in  the  field :  some  ages  lunl  been  lost ; 
But  woman  lipen'd  earlier,  and  her  life 
"Was  longer  ;    and  albeit  their  glorious 

names 
Were  fewei-,  scatter'd  stars,  yet  since  in 

truth 
The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man, 
And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 
Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the 

glebe, 
But  Homer,  Plato,  Veralam  ;  even  so 
With  woman  :  and  in  arts  of  government 
Elizabeth  and  others  ;  arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joanand  others ;  artsof  grace 
Sappho  and  others  vied  witli  any  man  : 
And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left  her 

place. 
And  bow'd  her  state  to  them,  that  they 

might  grow- 
To  use  and  power  on  this  Osisis,  lapt 
In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the 

blight 
Of  ancient  influence  and  scom. 

At  last 
She  rose  upon  a  wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ;  "everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the 

hearth, 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world. 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life, 
Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound 

the  abyss 
Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind  : 
Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  ciitic,  more  : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  bounteous 

Earth 
Should  bear  a  double  growth  of  those  rare 

souls, 
Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood 

of  the  world." 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon'd  us  :  the 

rest 
Parted ;  and,  glowing  full-faced  welcome, 

she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 
In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a  boat 
Tacks,  and  the  slacken'd  sail  flaps,  all 

her  voice 
Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her   throat, 

she  cried 


"My  brother!"  "Well,  my  sister."    "0" 

she  said 
"What  do  you  here?  and  in  this  dress? 

and  these  ? 
Why  who  are  these  ?  a  wolf  within  the 

fold  ! 
A  pack  of  wolves  !  the  Lord  be  gracious 

to  me  ! 
A  plot,  a  plot,  a  plot,  to  ruin  all  ! " 
"No    plot,    no    plot,"     he    answer'd 

"  Wretched  boy. 
How  saw  you  not  the  inscrijition  on  the 

gate. 
Let  no   max  exter  ix  ox  paix  of 

PEATII  ?" 

"And  if  1  had  "  he  answer'd  "who  could 

think 
The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

0  sister.  Sirens  tho'  they  be,  were  such 
As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of 

men  ?" 
' '  But  you  will  find  it  otherwise  "  she  said. 
"You  jest  :  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools  f 

my  vow 
Rinds  me  to  speak,  and  0  that  iron  will, 
That  axelike  edge  unturnable,  our  Head, 
The  Princess."     "  Well  then.   Psyche, 

take  my  life. 
And  nail  me  like  a  weasel  on  a  grange 
For  warning  :  bury  me  beside  the  gate, 
And  i^ut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones  ; 
Here  lies  a  brother  by  a  sister  slain. 
All  for  the  common  good  of  ivo^nankind." 
"  Let  me  die  too"  said  Cyril  "having  seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche." 

I  struck  in : 
"Albeit  so  mask'd,  Madam,  I  love  the 

truth  ; 
Receive  it ;  and  in  me  behold  the  Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  3'ears  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida  :  here,  for  here  she  was. 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left)  I 

came." 
' '  0  Sir,  0  Prince,  I  have  no  country ; 

none  ; 
If  any,  this;  but  none.     Whate'er  I  was 
Disrooted,  what  I  am  is  grafted  here. 
Affianced,  Sir  ?   love-whispers  may  not 

breathe 
Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how  should  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live  :  the  thun- 
derbolt 
Hangs  silent ;  but  prepare  :  I  speak  ;  it 

falls." 
"Yet  pause,"  I  said  :  "  for  that  inscrip- 
tion there, 

1  'rliink  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 


248 


THE   PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Than  in  a  clapper  clapping  in  a  garth, 
To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit  :    if  more 

there  be, 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows  ?  war  ; 
Your  own  work  marr'd  :  for  this  your 

Academe, 
"Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  halloo 
Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and  pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 
A.  stormless  summer."   "Let  the  Princess 

judge 
Of  that  "  she  said  :  "farewell  Sir —  and 

to  you. 
I  shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I  go. " 

* '  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche  "  1  rejoin'd, 
"The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Florian, 
Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father's  hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle  brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 
As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  Tvhen  he 

fell, 
And  all  else  fled  :  we  point  to  it,  and  we 

say. 
The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not  cold, 
But  branches   current   yet   in   kindred 

veins." 
"Are  you  that  Psyche"  Florian  added 

"she 
With  whom  I  sang  about  the  morning 

hills. 
Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the  purple 

And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ?  are 

you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throbbing 

brow, 
To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming 

draught 
Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and  read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  dreams  ?  are 

you 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in  one  ? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are  you 

now  ? " 
"  You  are  that  Psyche,"  Cyril  said,  "for 

whom 
I  would  be  that  for  ever  which  I  seem, 
Woman,  if  I  might  sit  beside  your  feet, 
And  glean  your  scatter'd  sapience." 

Then  once  more, 
"  Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche  "  I  began, 
"  That  on  her  bridal  morn  before  she  past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when  the 

king 
Kiss'd  her  pale  oheek,  declared  that  an- 
cient ties 


Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  southern 

hills  ; 
That  were  there  any  of  our  peoi)le  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them:  look!  for  such  are  these 

and  1." 
"Are  you  thp.t  Psyche"  Florian  ask'd 

"to  whom, 
I  n  gen  tier  days,  your  arrow-woun  ded  fawr 
Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the  well  1 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap. 
And  sobb'd,  and  you  sobb'd  with  it,  and 

the  blood 
Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you 

wept. 
That  was  fawn's  blood,  not  brother's,  yet 

you  wept. 
0  by  the  bright  liead  of  my  little  niece, 
You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are  you 

now  ? " 
"  You  ai-e  that  Psyche  "  Cyril  said  again, 
' '  The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little  maid. 
That  ever  crow'd  for  kisses." 

"Out  upon  it  !  " 
She  answer'd,  "peace  !  and  why  should 

I  not  play 
The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind  ? 
Him  you  call  great  :  he  for  the  common 

weal. 
The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 
As  I  might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need 

were. 
Slew  both  las  sons  :  and  I,  shall  I,  on 

whom 
The  secular  emancipation  turns 
Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from  right 

to  save 
A  prince,  a  brother  ?  a  little  will  I  yield. 
Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  foi 

you. 
0  hard,  when  love  and  duty  clash  !   I  feai 
My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleck- 
less  ;  yet  — 
Hear  my  conditions  :  promise  (otherwise 
You  perish)  as  you  came,  to  slip  away. 
To-day,  to-morrow,  soon  :  it  shall  be  said, 
These  women  were  too  barbarous,  would 

not  learn  ; 
They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us  : 

promise,  all." 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised  each  ; 

and  she. 
Like  some   wild   creature   newly-caged, 

commenced 
A  to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


249 


By  Florian  ;  holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling  faintly 

said  : 
"  I  knew  you  at  the  first :  tho'  you  have 

giowu 
You  scarce  have  alter'd  :  I  am  sad  and 

glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.    /  give  thee  to  death 
My  brother  I  it  was  duty  spoke,  not  I. 
Jly  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon  it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well  ? " 

With  that  she  kiss'd 
His  forehead,  then,  a  moment  after,  clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blossom'd 

From  out  a  common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet  househoLl  talk,  and  phrases  of  the 

hearth. 
And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall  :  and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a 

voice, 
"I  brought  a  message  here  from  Lady 

Blanche." 
Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  we 

saw 
The  Lady  Blanche's  daughter  where  she 

stood, 
Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock, 
A  rosy  blonde,  and  in  a  college  gown, 
That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her  mother's  color)  with  her  lips  apart, 
And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her 

eyes. 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning  seas. 

So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at  the 

door. 
Then   Lady   Psyche    "Ah  —  Melissa  — 

you  ! 
You  heard  us  ? "  and  Melissa,  "0  pardon 

me  ; 
I  heard,  I  could  not  help  it,  did  not  wish  : 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not. 
Nor  think  I  bear  that  heart  within  my 

breast. 
To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to  death. " 
"  I  trust  you  "  said  the  other  "for  we  two 
Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm  and 

vine  : 
But  yet  your  mother's  jealous  tempera- 
ment — 
Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest,  drowse, 

or  prove 
The  Danaid  of  a  leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I  lose 


My   honor,    these   their   li^es."     "Ah, 

fear  me  not " 
Replied  Melissa  "no  —  I  would  not  tell, 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasia's  cleverness. 
No,  not   to  answer.  Madam,  all  those 

hard  things 
That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon." 
"  Be  it  so"  the  other  "  that  we  still  may 

lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in  peace, 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  j'et." 
Said  Cyril  "Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar  :  nor  should  you 
(Tho'   madam   you  should  answer,   we 

would  ask) 
Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you  came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you, 
Myself  for  something  more."     He  said 

not  what. 
But  "Thanks,"  she  answer'd  "go:  we 

have  been  too  long 
Together :  keepyourhoodsaliouttheface; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 
Speak  little  ;  mix  not  with  the  rest ;  and 

hold 
Your  promise  :  all,  I  trust,  may  yet  be 

well." 

We  turn'd  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the 

child. 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against 

his  waist. 
And  blew  the  swoU'n  cheek  of  a  ti-um- 

peter. 
While  Psyche  watch'd  them,  smiling,  and 

the  child 
Push'd  her  flat  hand  against  his  face  and 

laugh'd  ; 
And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  stroll'd 
For  half  the  day  thro"  stately  theatres 
Bench'd  crescent-wise.     In  each  we  sat, 

we  heard 
The  grave  Professor.   On  the  lecture  slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
With   flawless  demonstration  •.  foUow'd 

then 
A  classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment. 
With  scraps  of  thundrous  Epic  lilted  out 
By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  tive-words- 

long 
That  on  the  stretch'd  forefinger   of  all 

Time 
Sparkle  for  ever  :  then  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state, 


250 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY, 


The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 
The  morals,  something  of  the  frame,  the 

rock, 
The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell,  the 

flower. 
Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest, 
And    whatsoever    can   be    taught    and 

known ; 
Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 

fence, 
And  glutted  all  night  long  breast-deep 

in  corn. 
We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and  I 

spoke  : 
"  Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as 

we." 
"  They  liunt  old  trails  "  said  Cyril  "  very 

well  ; 
But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent  ? " 
"  Ungracious ! "  answer'd  Florian,  "have 

you  learnt 
No  more  from  Psyche's  lecture,  you  that 

talk'd 
The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  almost 

sad  ? " 
' '  0  trash  "  he  said  ' '  Irat  with  a  kernel  in  it. 
Should  I  not  call  her  wise,  who  made  me 

■wise  ? 
And  learnt  ?     I  learnt  more  from  her  in 

a  flash, 
Than  if  my  brainpan  wei-e  an  empty  hull. 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a  science  in. 
A  thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these  halls. 
And  round  these  halls  a  thousand  baby 

loves 
Fly   twanging  headless   arrows  at   the 

hearts. 
Whence  follows  many  a  vacant   pang ; 

but  0 
With  me,  Sir,  enter'd  in  the  bigger  boy, 
The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted  firm, 
The  long-linib'd  lad  that  had  a  Psyche  too ; 
He  cleft  me  thro'  the  stomacher  ;  and  now 
What  think  you  of  it,  Florian  ?  do  1  chase 
The  substance  or  the  shadow  ?  will  it  hold  ? 
I  have  no  sorcerer's  malison  on  me. 
No  ghostly hauntingslikehis  Highness.  I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 
I  know  the  substance  when  I  see  it.  Well, 
Are  castles  shadows  ?  Three  of  them  ?  Is 

she 
The  sweet  proprietress  a  shadow  ?  If  not, 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tat- 

ter'd  coat  ? 
For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my 

wants. 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 


And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double 

worth, 
And  much  I  might  have  said,  but  that 

my  zone 
Unmann'd  me  :  then  the  Doctors  !   0  to 

hear 
The  Doctors  !     0  to  watch  the  thirsty 

plants 
Imbibing !  once  or  twice  I  thought  to  roar. 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane  : 

but  thou. 
Modulate  me,  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry  ! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my 

throat ; 
Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to  meet 
Star  -  sisters    answering  under  crescent 

brows  ; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man, 

and  loose 
A  flying  charm  of  blushes  o'er  this  cheek, 
Where  they  like  swallows  coming  out  of 

time 
Will  wonder  why  they  came  :  but  hark 

the  bell 
For  dinner,  let  us  go  !  " 

And  in  we  stream'd 
Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and  still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end  to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown  and 

fair 
In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist, 
The  longhall  glitter'd  like  a  bed  of  flowers. 
How  might  a  man  not  wander  from  his 

wits 
Pierced  thro'  with  eyes,  but  that  1  kept 

mine  own 
Intent  on  her,  wlio  rapt  in  glorious  dreams. 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astrsean  age, 
Sat  compass'd  with  professors  :  they,  the 

while, 
Discuss'd  a  doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro  : 
A  clamor  thicken'd,  mixt  with  inmost 

terms 
Of  art  and  science  :  Lady  Blanche  alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  lineaments, 
With   all    her   autumn    tresses  falsely 

brown. 
Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a  tiger-cat 
In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a  solemn  grace 
Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens  : 

there 
One  walk'd  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
In  this  hand  held  a  volume  as  to  read, 
And  smoothed  a  petted   peacock  down 

with  that : 
Some  to  a  low  song  oar'd  a  shallop  by. 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


251 


Or  under  arches  ot  the  marble  bi'idge 
Hung,  sliadow'd   from  the  heat :    some 

hid  and  sought 
In  the  orange  thickets  :    others  tost  a 

ball 
Above  the  fountain-jets,  and  back  again 
With  laughter  :   others  lay  about  the 

lawns. 
Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur'd  that 

their  May- 
Was  passing :    what  was  learning  unto 

them  ? 
They  wish'd  to  marry  ;  they  could  rule 

a  house ; 
Men  hated  learned  women  :  but  we  three 
Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates ;  and  often 

came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity, 
That  harm'd  not :  then  day  droopt  ;  the 

chapel  bells 
Call'd  us  :  we  left  the  walks  ;  we  mixt 

with  those 
Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest  white, 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall  to 

wall, 
While  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his 

pipes. 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro' 

the  court 
A  long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies. 
The   work   of   Ida,  to  call   down   from 

Heaven 
A  blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow. 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast. 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little   one,  sleep,  my  pretty 
one,  sleep. 


in. 

MoRX  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning 

star 
Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 
We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with  care 
Descended  to  the  courts  that  lay  three  parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses'  heads  were 

touch'd 
Above  the  darkness   from    their  native 

East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount, 

and  watch'd 
Or  seem'd  to  watch  the  dancing  bubble, 

approach'd 
Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of 

sleep. 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  herdewy  eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a  night  of  tears  ; 
"  And  fly  "  she  cr\ed,  "0  fly,  while  yet 

you  may  ! 
My  mother  knows"  :  and  when  I  ask'd 

her  "how  " 
"My  fault"  she  wept  "my  fault !  and 

yet  not  mine  ; 
Yet  mine  in  part.  0  hear  me,  pardon  me. 
My  mother,  't  is  her  wont  from  night  to 

night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 
She  says  the  Princess  should  have  been 

the  Head, 
Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arms  ; 
And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they  came ; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  liand  now, 
And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom  used  ; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all 

the  love. 
And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass  you  : 
Her  countrywomen  1  she  didnotcnvy  her. 
'  Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 
Girls  ?  —  more  like  men  ! '  and  at  these 

words  the  snake. 
My  secret,  seem'd  to  stir  within  my  breast ; 
And  oh,  Sirs,  could  I  help  it,  but  my 

cheek 
Began  to  burn  and  bum,  and  her  lynx  eye 
To   fix   and   make  me   hotter,  till   she 

laugh'd : 
'  0  marvellou.sly  modest  maiden,  you  ! 
Men  !  girls,  like  men  !  why,  if  they  had 

been  men 
You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in  rubric 

thus 
For  wholesale  comment.'     Pardon,  I  am 

shamed 
That  I  must  needs  repeat  for  my  excuse 


252 


THE    PRINCESS  :    A    MEDLEY, 


What  looks  so  little  graceful  :  '  men ' 
(for  still 

My  mother  went  revolving  on  the  word) 

'  And  so  they  are,  —  very  like  men  in- 
deed— 

And  with  that  woman  closeted  for  hours  ! ' 

Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out  one 
by  one, 

'  Why  —  these  —  are  —  men '  :  I  shud- 
der'd  :   '  and  you  know  it.' 

'0  ask  me  nothing,'  I  said  :  'And  she 
knows  too, 

And  she  conceals  it.'  So  my  mother 
clutch'd 

The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word 
from  me  ; 

And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to  in- 
form 

The  Princess :  Lady  Psyche  will  be  crush'd ; 

But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  therefore 

fly: 

Bu  t  heal  m e  with  your  pardon  ere  you  go. " 

' '  What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a 

blush?" 
Said  Cyril  :    "  Pale   one,  blush   again  : 

than  wear 
Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives  away. 
Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more  in 

Heaven  " 
He  added,  "lest  some  classic  Angel  speak 
In  scorn  of  us,  'they  mounted,  Gany- 

medes. 
To  tumble,  Vulcans,  on  the  second  morn.' 
But  1  will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough"  :  and  he 

went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls,  and 

thought 
He   scarce  would  prosper.     "Tell  us," 

Florian  ask'd, 
"  How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the  right 

and  left." 
'■'■  0  long  ago,"  she  said,  "betwixt  these 

two 
Division    smoulders    hidden ;   't  is    my 

mother, 
Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a  crevice  :  much  I  bear  with  her : 
I  never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a  fool ; 
And  still  she  rail'd  against  the  state  of 

things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida's  youth. 
And  from  the  Queen's  decease  she  brought 

her  up. 


But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the 

heart 
Of  Ida  :  they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inosculated ; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one  note  ; 
One  mind  in  all  things  :  yet  my  mother 

still 
Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  theories, 
Andangled  withthemforherpupil'slove  : 
She  calls  her  plagiarist ;  1  know  not  what  : 
But  I  must  go  :  I  dare  not  tarry "  and 

light. 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a  bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmur'd  Florian  gazing  after 

her. 
"An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and  pure. 
If  I  could  love,,  why  this  were  she  :  how 

pretty 
Her  blushing  was,  and  liow  she  blush'd 

again. 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril's  random  wish  : 
Not  like   your   Princess  cramm'd  with 

erring  pride. 
Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags 

in  tow." 

"The  crane,"  I  said,  "  may  chatter  of 

the  crane, 
The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 
An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 
My  princess,  0  my  princess !   true  she 

errs. 
But  in  her  own  grand  way  :  being  herself 
Three  times  more  noble  than  threescore 

of  men. 
She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else. 
And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a  crown 
To  blind  the  truth  and  me  :  for  her,  and 

her, 
Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 
The  nectar  ;  but  —  ah  she  —  whene'er 

she  moves 
The  Samian  Here  rises  and  she  speaks 
A  Memnon  smitten  with  the  moi-ning 

Sun." 

So  saying   from  the  court  we  paced, 

and  gain'd 
The  terrace  ranged  along  the  Northern 

front. 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters,  high 
Above  the  empurpled  champaign,  drank 

the  gale 
That  blown  about  the  foliage  underneath, 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose, 
Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.    Hither  came 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


253 


Cynl,  and  yawning  "  O  hard  task,"  he 

cried  ; 
"No  fighting  shadows  here  !     1  forced  a 

way 
Thro'  solid  opposition  crabb'd  and  gnarl'd. 
Better  to  clear  ]>rinie  forests,  lieave  and 

thump 
Aleagueofstreetinsiunmersolsticedown, 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend   gentle- 
woman. 
I  knock'd  and,  bidden,  enter'd  ;  found 

her  there 
At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her  eyes 
The  green   malignant   light   of  coming 

storm. 
Sir,  I  was  courteous,  every  phrase  well- 

oil'd. 
As  man's  could  be  ;  yet  maiden-meek  I 

pray'il 
Concealment:  she  demanded  who  we  were. 
And  why  we  came  ?     I  fabled  nothing 

fair. 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 
Up  went  the  hush'd  amaze  of  hand  and 

eye. 
But  when  I  dwelt  upon  your  old  affiance. 
She  answer'd  sharply  that  I  talk'd  astray. 
I  urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the  gate. 
And  our  three   lives.     True  —  we   had 

limed  ourselves 
With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the 

chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I  told  her,  well  might 

harm 
The  woman's  cause.     '  Not  more   than 

now,'  she  said, 
'So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism.' 
I  tried  the  mother's  heart.     Shame  might 

befall 
Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she  knew  : 
Her  answer  was  '  Leave  me  to  deal  with 

that.' 
I  spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many  deaths, 
And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  speak, 
And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 
I  grew  discouraged,  Sir  ;  but  since  I  knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a  little  wave 
May  beat  admission  in  a  thousand  years, 
I  recommenced  ;  '  Decide   not  ere   you 

pause. 
I  find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place, 
Some  say  the  third — the  authentic  found- 
ress you. 
1  offer  boldly  :  we  will  seat  you  highest : 
Wink  at  our  advent  :  help  my  prince  to 

gain 
His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I  promise  you 


Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you  shall 

reign 
The  liead  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she- 
world, 
And  your  great  name  flow  on  with  broad- 

ening  time 
For  ever.'    Well,  she  balanced  this  a  little. 
And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to-day, 
Meantime    be    mute :    thus   much,    nor 
more  I  gain'd." 

He  ceasing,  came  a  message  from  the 

Head. 
' '  That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her  ?  we  should  find 

the  land 
Worth  seeing  ;  and  the  river  made  a  fall 
Out  yonder":    then  she  pointed  on  to 

where 
A  double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of  the 

vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro'  all 
Its  range?  of  duties  to  the  ajipoiuted  hour. 
Then  summon'd  to  the  porch  we  went. 

She  stood 
Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the  head, 
Her  back  against  a  pillar,  her  foot  on  one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.     Kittenlike  he 

roU'd 
And  paw'd  about  her  sandaL    Idrewnear  ; 
I  gazed.    On  a  sudden  my  strange  seizure 

came 
Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our  house  : 
The  Princess  Ida  seem'd  a  hollow  show, 
Her  gay-furr'd  cats  a  painted  fantasy. 
Her   college  and    her    maidens,    empty 

masks, 
And  I  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream, 
For  all  things  were  and  were  not.     Yet 

I  felt 
My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and 

with  awe  ; 
Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary  sigh 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light  of 

eyes 
That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and 

shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  ani  so 
Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following  up 
The  river  as  it  narrow'd  to  the  hills. 

I  rode  beside  her  and  to  me  .she  .said  ; 
'  O  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem'd 
us  not 


254 


THE   PRmCESS:    A   MEDLEY, 


Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yestermom ; 

Unwillingly  we  spake."  "No  —  not  to 
her," 

I  aiiswer'd,  "but  to  one  of  whom  we 
spake 

Your  Highness  might  have  seem'd  the 
thing  you  say." 

"Again  ?  "  she  cried,  "are  you  ambassa- 
dresses 

From  him  to  me  ?  we  give  you,  being 
strange, 

A  license  :  speak,  and  let  the  topic  die." 

I  stammer'd  that  I  knew  him  —  could 
have  wish'd  — ■ 

**  Our  king  expects  —  was  there  no  pre- 
contract ? 

There  is  no  truer-hearted  —  ah,  you  seem 

All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 

The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but 
long'd 

To  follow  :  surely,  if  your  Highness 
keep 

Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev'n 
to  death. 

Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair. " 

"  Poor  boy  "  she  said  "can  he  not  read 

—  no  books  ? 
Quoit,  tennis,  ball  — no  games  ?  nor  deals 

in  that 
Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise  ? 
To  nurse  a  blind  ideal  like  a  girl, 
Methinks  he  seems   no   better  than  a 

girl  ; 
As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 

been  : 
We  had  our  dreams ;  perhaps  he  mixt 

with  them  : 
We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to 

do  it, 
Being  other  —  since  we  learnt  our  mean- 
ing here. 
To  lift  the  woman's  fall'n  divinity 
Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man." 

She  paused,  and  added  with  a  haugh- 
tier smile 

"  And  as  to  precontracts,  Ave  move,  my 
friend. 

At  no  man's  beck,  but  know  ourself  and 
thee, 

0  Vashti,  noble  Vashti  !    Summon'd  out 

She  kept  her  state,  and  left  the  drunken 
king 

To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the 
palms." 


"Alas   your   Highness   breathes   full 

East,"  I  said, 
"  On  that  which  leans  to  you.     I  know 

the  Prince, 
I  prize  his  truth  :  and  then  how  vast  a 

work 
To  assail  this  gray  pre-eminence  of  man  ! 
You  grant  me  license  ;  might  I  use  it  ? 

think  ; 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life  may 

fail  ; 
Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your 

plan. 
And  takes  and  ruins  all ;  and  thus  your 

pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
AVhich  old-recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Resmooth  to  nothing  :  might  I  dread  that 

you,  -A 

With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your 

great  deeds 
For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and  miss, 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts 

her  due, 
Love,  children,  happiness?'' 

And  she  exclaim'd, 
"  Peace,  you  young  savage  of  the  North- 
ern wikl  ! 
What !  tho'  your  Prince's  love  were  like 

a  God's, 
Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice  ? 
You  are  bold  indeed  :  we  are  not  talk'd 

to  thus  : 
Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they 

grew 
Like  field-flowers  everywhere  !   we  like 

them  well : 
But  children  die  ;  and  let  me  tell  you, 

girl, 
Howe'er  you  babble,  great  deeds  cannot 

die  ; 
They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew  their 

light 
Forever,  blessing  those  that  look  on  them. 
Children  —  that   men  may  pluck  them 

from  our  hearts. 
Kill   us  with  i)ity,  break  us  with  our- 
selves — 
0  —  children  —  there  is  nothing  upon 

earth 
More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a  son 
And  sees  him  err  :  nor  would  wc  work 

for  fame  ; 
The'  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  applause 

of  Great, 
Who  learns   the   one  POU   sto   whence 

after- hands 


THE  PEINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


255 


May  move   the  world,  tlio'  she   herself 

effect 
But  little  :    wherefore  up  and   act,  nor 

shrink 
For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
By  frail  successors.     Would,  indeed,  we 

had  been, 
In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a  race 
Of  giants  living,  each,  a  thousand  years, 
That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out,  and 

watch 
The  sandy  footprint  harden  into  stone." 

I  answer'd  nothing,  doubtful  in  my- 
self 

If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her 
grand 

Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

And  she  broke  out  interpreting  my 
thoughts : 

"  No  doubt  we  seem  a  kind  of  monster 

to  you  ; 
We  are  used  to  that  :  for  women,  up  till 

this 
Cra.np'd  under  worse  than  South-sea-isle 

taboo, 
Dwarfs  of  the  gynteceum,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot 

guess 
How  much   their  welfare  is  a  passion 

to  us. 
If  we  could  give   them   surer,  quicker 

proof  — 
Oh  if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death, 
We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against  the 

pikes, 
Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it. 
To  compass  our  dear  sisters'  liberties." 

She  bow'd  as  if  to  veil  a  noble  tear  ; 
And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river  sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on  black 

blocks 
A  breadth  of  thunder.    O'er  it  shook  the 

woods. 
And  danced  the  color,  and,  below,  stuck 

out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived 

.        and  roar'd 
Before  man  was.     She  gazed  awhile  and 

said, 
"  As  these  rude  bones  to  us,  are  we  to  her 
That   will   be."     "  Dare   we   dream   of 

that,"  I  ask'd, 


' '  Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman 

and  his  work. 
That  practice  betters?"     "How,"    she 

cried,  "you  love 
The  metaphysics !  read  and  earn  our  prize, 
A  golden  broach  :    beneath  an  emerald 

plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock  ;  our  device  ;  wrought  to  the 

life; 
She  i-apt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her : 
For  there  are  schools  for  all."     "And 

yet "  1  said 
' '  Methinks  1  have  not  found  among  them 

all 
One  anatomic."     "Nay,  we  thought  of 

that," 
She  answer'd,  ' '  but  it  pleased  us  not : 

in  truth 
We  shudder  but  to  dream   our  maids 

should  ape 
Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the 

living  hound. 
And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of  the 

grave, 
Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart. 
And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm. 
Dabbling  a  shameless  hand  with  shame- 
ful jest, 
Encarnalize  their  spirits  :  yet  we  know 
Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this  matter 

hangs : 
Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty, 
Nor  willing  men  should  come  among  us, 

learnt, 
For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came, 
This  craft  of  healing.     Were  you  sick, 

ourself 
Would  tend  upon  you.    To  your  question 

now. 
Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his 

work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light : 

't  is  so  : 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is ; 
And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once, 
The  birth  of  light  :   but  we  that  are  not 

all. 
As  parts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this,  now 

that, 
And    live,    perforce,    from   thought    to 

thought,  and  make 
One  act  a  phantom  of  succession  :  thus 
Our    weakness     somehow     shapes     the 

shadow.  Time  ; 
But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  and  mould 
The  woman  to  the  fuller  day." 


256 


THE  PRINCESS:  A  MEDLEY. 


'  The  splendor  falls  on  ceistle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story.'* 


She  spake 
With  kindled  eyes  :  we  rode  a  league  be- 
yond, 
And,  o'er  a  bridge  of  pinevvood  crossing, 

came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag. 
Full  of  all  beauty.    ' '  0  how  sweet "  I  said 
(For  I  was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask) 
"  To  linger  here  with  one  that  loved  us." 

"  Yea" 
She  answer'd  ' '  or  with  fair  philosophies 
That  lift  the  fancy ;  for  indeed  these  fields 
Are  lovely,  lovelier  not  the  Elysiau  lawns. 
Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old,  and 

saw 
The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the  crowned 
towers 


Built  to  the  Sun  "  :  then,  turning  to  hei 

maids, 
' '  Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  the  sward ; 
Lay  out  the  viands."     At  the  word,  they 

raised 
A  tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna's  triumph  ;  here  she 

stood. 
Engirt  with  many  a  florid  maiden-cheek. 
The   woman  -  conqueror  ;    woman  -  con- 

quer'd  there 
The   bearded   Victor   of  ten  -  thousand 

hymns. 
And  all  the  men  mourn'd  at  his  side; 

but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb  ;  then,  climbing,  Cyril 

kept 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


257 


With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  affianced.    Many  a  little  hand 
Glanced  like  a  touch  of  sunshine  on  the 

rocks. 
Many  a  light  foot  shone  like  a  jewel  set 
In  the  dark  crag  :  and  then  we  turn'd, 

we  wound 
About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in. 
Hammering    and    clinking,    chattering 

stony  names 
Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap 

and  tuff, 
Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and  fell, 

and  all 
The  rosy  heights  came  outaboVe  the  lawns. 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes. 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flyings 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dyiiig,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  hark,  0  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear. 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  I 

0  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scaur 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 

Blow,  letushear  the  purple glensreplying: 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes 

flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dy- 
ing, dying. 


IV. 

'-■*  There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call 
the  Sun, 

If  that  hj-pothesis  of  theirs  be  sound  " 

Said  Ida  ;  "let  us  down  and  rest"  ;  and 
W'e 

Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled  preci- 
pices, 

By  every  coppice-feather'd  chasm  and 
cleft, 


Dropt  thro'  the  ambrosial  gloom  to  where 

below 
No  bigger  than  a  glow-worm  snone  the 

tent 
Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.  Once  she  lean  d 

on  me, 
Descending  ;  once  or  twice  she  lent  her 

hand. 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood. 
Stirring  a  sudden  transport  rose  and  fell 

But  when  w'e  planted  level  feet,  and  diyn 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter'd  in, 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider'd  down  we 

sank 
Our  elbows  :  on  a  tripod  in  the  midst 
A  fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us  glow'd 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and 

gold. 

Then  she  ' '  Let  some  one  sing  to  us  : 

lightlier  move 
The  minutes  fledged  w-ith  music"  :  and 

a  maid. 
Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp,  and 

sang. 

' '  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what 

they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  de- 

sjiair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on 
a  sail. 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  un- 
derworld, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 

That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 
verge  ; 

So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  daysthat  are  no  more. 

"  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  sum- 
mer dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  w-hen  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 

square  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no 
more. 

* '  Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy 

feign'd 
On  Ups  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 


258 


THE   PKINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


'  In  Id   k;ii4"  "!i  tlie  hanpy  Autumn-ficlJb, 
AnJ  tliiiikiu^  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 


Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  re- 
gret; 

0  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no 
more." 

She  ended  with  such  passion  that  the 
tear, 
She  sang  of,   shook  and  fell,   an  erring 

pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom  :  but  with  some  dis- 
dain 
Answer'd  the  Piincess  "  If  indeed  there 

haunt 
About  the  moulder'd  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a  voice  and  vague,  fatal  to  men. 
Well  needs  it  we  should  crara  our  ears 
with  wool 


And  so  pace  by  :  but  thine  ar>i  laucies 

hatch'd 
In  silken-folded  idleness  ;  nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a  true  occasion  lost, 
But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones  be, 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us 

each  and  all 
To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs 

of  ice. 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  the 

waste 
Becomes   a  cloud  :  for  all  things   serve 

their  time 
Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights 

and  rights. 
Nor  would  1  fight  with  iron  laws,  in  theend 
Fomid  golden  :  let  the  past  be  past ;  let  be 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


259 


Their  cancell'd  Babels :  tho'  the  rough 

kex  break 
The  Starr' (1  mosaic,  and  the  beard-blown 

goat 
Hang  on  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  figtree  split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  while  we 

hear 
A  trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a  poising  eagle,  burns 
Above  the  unrisen  morrow"  :  then  to  me  ; 
"  Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land," 

she  said, 
"  Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retrospect. 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  ami 

the  hues 
Of  promise ;   not  a  death's-head  at  the 

wine." 

Then  I  remember'd  one  myself  had 
made, 

What  time  I  watch'd  the  swallow  wing- 
ing south 

From  mine  own  laud,  part  made  long 
since,  and  part 

Now  while  I  sang,  and  maidenlike  as  far 

As  I  could  ape  their  treble,  did  I  sing. 

"0  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying 
South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  1  tell  to  thee. 

"0  tell  her.  Swallow,  thou  that  know- 

est  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the 

South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North . 

' '  0  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow, 

and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  millicn 

loves. 

"0  were  I  thou  that  she  might  ta'.:e 
me  in. 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

"  Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart 

with  love. 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  her.self,  when  all  the  w^oods  are 

green  ? 

"  0  tell  her.  Swallow,  that  thy  brood 
is  flown  : 


Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is 
made. 

"  0  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long 
And  brief  the  sun  of  .summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

"0  Swallow,  flpng  from  the  gcldec 

woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and 

make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee." 

I  ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at  each, 
Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old  time. 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh'd  with 

alien  lips. 
And  knew'  not  what  they  meant ;    for 

still  my  voice 
Rang  false:  but  smiling  "Not  for  thee," 

slie  said, 
"0  Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall    burst    her    veil :    marsh  -  divers, 

rather,  maid, 
Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow- 
crake 
Grate  her  harsh  kindred  in  the  grass  • 

and  this 
A  mere  love-poem  I  0  for  .such,  my  friend. 
We  hold  them  slight :  they  mind  us  of 

the  time 
When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt.  Knaves 

are  men, 
That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tendernes.s, 
And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up. 
And  paint  the  gates  of  Kell  with  Paradise, 
And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 
Poor  soul  !  I  had  a  maid  of  honor  once  ; 
She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for.suchaone, 
A  rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 
1  loved  her.     Peace  be  with  her.     She 

is  dead. 
So  they  blaspheme  the  muse  !  but  great 

is  song 
Used  to  great  ends :  ourself  have  cftec 

tried 
Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have 

dash'd 
The  passion  of  the  prophetess  ;  for  .song 
Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 
Of  spirit  than  to  junketing  and  love. 
Love  is  it  ?  Would  this  same  mock-love, 

and  this 
Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter 

bats. 
Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth. 


260 


THE   PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  petty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and 

sphered 
Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 

Enough  ! 
But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  you. 
Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of 

your  soil, 
That  gives  the  manners  of  your  country- 
women ? " 

She  spoke  and  turn'd  her  sumptuous 

head  with  eyes 
Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 
Then  while  I  dragg'd  my  brains  for  such 

a  song, 
Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth'd  glass 

had  wrought. 
Or  m  aster' d  by  the  sense  of  sport,  began 
To  troll  a  careless,  careless  tavern-catch 
Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 
Unmeet  for  ladies.     Florian  nodded  at 

him, 
I  frowning  ;  Psyche  flush'd  and  wann'd 

and  shook  ; 
The  lilylike  Melissa  droop'd  her  brows  ; 
"Forbear"  the  Princess  cried;    "For- 
bear, Sir"  I  ; 
And  heated  thro'  and  thro'  with  wrath 

and  love, 
I  smote  him  on  the  breast  ;  he  started  up  ; 
There  rose  a  shriek  as  of  a  city  sack'd  ; 
Melissa   clamor'd    "Flee   the   death"; 

"To  horse" 
Said  Ida  ;  "  home  !  to  horse  !  "  and  fled, 

as  flies 
A  troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the  dusk. 
When  some  one  batters  at  the  dovecote- 
doors, 
Disorderly  the  women.     Alone  I  stood 
With   Florian,    cursing  Cyril,    vext   at 

heart, 
In  the  paiilion  :  there  like  parting  hopes 
I  heard  them  passing  from  me  :  hoof  by 

hoof, 
And  every  hoof  a  knell  to  my  desires, 
Clang'd  on  the  bridge  ;  and  then  another 

shriek, 
"The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess.  0 

the  Head  !  " 
For  blind  with  rage  she  miss'd  the  plank, 

and  roU'd 
In  the  river.  Out  I  sprang  from  glow  to 

gloom  : 
There  whirl'd  her  white  robe  like  a  blos- 

som'd  branch 
Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall  :  a  glance  I  gave, 


No  more  ;  but  worn  an- vested  as  1  was 
Plunged  ;   and  the   flood   drew  ;  yet  I 

caught  her  ;  then 
Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the 

world. 
Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.     A  tree 
Was  lialf-disrooted  from  his   place  and 

stoop' d 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gurgling 

wave 
]\Iid-channel.     Right  on  this  we  drove 

and  caught, 
And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I  gain'd 

the  shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmeringly 

group' d 
In  the  hollow  bank.     One  reaching  for- 
ward drew 
My  burden  from  mine  arms  ;  they  cried 

"  she  lives"  : 
They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent :  but  I, 
So  much  a  kind  of  shame  within  me 

wrought, 
Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening  eyes, 
Nor  found  my  friends  ;  but  push'd  alone 

on  foot 
(Forsinceherhorsewaslostllefthermine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian 

craft 
Than  beelike  iastinct  hiveward,  found 

at  length 
The  garden  portals.     Two  great  statues, 

Art 
And  Science,  Car}'atids,  lifted  up 
A  weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were 

valves 
Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter  rued 
His   rash   intrusion,    manlike,    but   his 

brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  thereupon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked  the 

gates. 

A  little  space  was  left  between  the  horns, 
Thro'  which  I  clamber'd  o'er  at  top  with 

pain, 
Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden 

walks. 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed  from 

hce  to  hue. 
Now  poring  on  the  glowwoim,  now  the 

star, 
I  paced  the  terrace,   till  the  Bear  had 

wheel'd 
Thro'  a  great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


261 


A  step 
Of  lightest  echo,  then  a  loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro'  the  uncertain 

gloom, 
Disturb'd  me  with  the   doubt  "if  this 

were  she  " 
But  it  was  Florian.    "Hist  0  Hist,"  he 

said, 
"  They  seek  us  :  out  so  late  isout  of  rules. 
Moreover  '  seize  the  strangers  '  is  the  cry. 
How  came  you  here  ?"  I  told  liim  :  "I" 

.said  he, 
"  Last  of  the  train,  a  moral  leper,  I, 
To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at  heart, 

retuvn'd. 
Arriving  all  confu.sed  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I  crept  into  the  hall. 
And,  couch'd  behind  a  Judith,   under- 
neath 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep'd  and  saw. 
Girl  after  girl  was  call'd  to  trial  :  each 
Disclaini'dallknowledgeof us:  lastof  all, 
Melissa  :  trust  me.  Sir,  I  pitied  her. 
She,  question'd  if  she  knew  us  men,  at 

first 
Was  silent  ;  closer  prest,  denied  it  not : 
And  then,  demanded  if  her  mother  knew, 
Or  Psyche,  she  alfirm'd  not,  or  denied  : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  familiar 

with  her, 
Easily  gather'd  either  guilt.     She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there  ;  she 

call'd 
For  Psyche's  child  to  ca.st  it  from  the 

doors  ; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her  face 

to  face  ; 
And  I  sliptout :  butwhitherwillyounow  ? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril?  both  are  fled: 
What,  if  together  ?  that  were  not  so  well. 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come  !  I  dread 
His  wildness,  and  thechancesof  the  dark. " 

"And  yet,"  I  .said,  "you  wrong  him 

more  than  I 
That  struck  him :  this  is  proper  to  the 

clown, 
Tho'   smoek'd,  or   furr'd   and   purpled, 

still  the  clown, 
To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and 

to  shame 
That  which  he  says  he  loves  ;  for  Cyril, 

howe'er 
He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night  —  the  song 
Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn'd  in 

grosser  lipr, 
Beyond  all  pardon  —  as  it  is,  I  hold 


These  flashes  on  the  surface  are  not  he. 
He  has  a  solid  base  of  temperament : 
But  a.s  the  waterlily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  putl's  of  wind 
Tho'  anchor'd  to  the  bottom,  such  is  he." 

Scarce  had  I  ceased  when  from  a  tam- 
arisk near 
Two    Proctors   leapt   upon   us,    crying, 

"  Names"  : 
He,  standing  still,  was  clutch'd ;  but  1 

began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and  race 
B}'^  all  the  fountains  :  fleet  I  was  of  foot : 
Before  me  shower'd  the  rose  in  flakes ; 

behind 
I  heard  the  imflTd  pursuer  ;  at  mine  ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded  not, 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  soul. 
At  last  I  hook'd  my  ankle  in  a  vine, 
That  claspt  the  feet  of  a  Mnemosyne, 
And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and 
known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where 

she  sat 
High  in  the  hall :   above  her  droop'd  a 

lamp, 
And  made  the  single  jewel  on  her  brow 
Burn  like  the  mystic  flre  on  a  mast-head. 
Prophet  of  storm  :  a  handmaid  on  each  side 
Bow'd  toward  her,  combing  out  her  long 

black  hair 
Damp  from  the  river ;  and  c?ose  l)ehind 

her  stood 
Eight  daughters  of  the  plough,  stronger 

than  men. 
Huge  women  blowzed  with  health,  and 

wind,  and  rain, 
And  labor.      Each  was  like  a  Dniid  rock  ; 
Or  like  a  spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 
Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail'd  about 

with  mews. 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  dividing 

clove 
An  advent  to  the  throne  :  and  there  beside, 
Half-naked  as  if  caught  at  once  from  bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth,  lay 
The  lily-shining  child  ;  and  on  the  left, 
Bow'd  on  her  palms  and  folded  up  from 

wrong, 
Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with 

her  sobs, 
Melissa  knelt  ;  but  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent  orator. 


262 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A    MEDLEY. 


"  It  was  not  thus,  0  Princess,  in  old 

days  : 
You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my 

lips  : 
I  led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies  ; 
I  fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every  Muse  ; 
I  loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you  me 
Your  second  mother :  those  were  gracious 

times. 
Then  came  your  new  friend  :  you  began 

to  change  — 
I  saw  it  and  grieved  —  to  slacken  and  to 

cool ; 
Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 
You  turn'd  your  warmer  currents  all  to 

her. 
To  me  you  froze  :  this  was  my  meed  for 

all. 
Yet  I  bore  up  in  i)art  from  ancient  love. 
And  partly  that  1  hoped  to  win  you  back, 
And  jiartly  conscious  of  my  own  deserts, 
And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil  head. 
And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  something 

great, 
In  which  I  might  your  fellow-worker  be. 
When  time  should  serve  ;  and   thus   a 

noble  scheme 
Grew  up  from  seed  we  two  long  since 

had  sown  ; 
In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a  Jonah's  gourd. 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden  sun  : 
We  took  this  palace  ;  but  even  from  the 

first 
You  stood  in  your  own  light  and  darken'd 

mine. 
What  student  came  but  that  you  planed 

her  path 
To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 
A  foreigner,  and  I  j'our  countrywoman, 
I  your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in 

all? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell'd  and  mine 

were  lean  ; 
Yet  I  bore  upinlioiieshe  wouldbeknown  : 
Then  came  these  wolves  :  tliey  knew  her  : 

they  endured, 
Long-closeted  with  her  the  yestermorn. 
To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to 

hear  : 
And  me  none  told :  not  less  to  an  eye 

like  mine, 
A  lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal. 
Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and 

my  foot 
Was  to  you  :  but  I  thought  again  :  Ifear'd 
To  meet  a  cold  '  We  thank  you,  we  shall 
hepr  of  it 


From  Lady  Psyche '  :   you  had  gone  to 

her, 
She  told,    perforce  ;    and  winning  easy 

grace. 
No   doubt,   for   slight   delay,    remain'd 

among  us 
In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown,  the 

stem 
Less   grain  than  touchwood,  while  my 

honest  heat 
Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant  haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and  power. 
But  public  use  required  she  should  be 

known  ; 
And  since  my  oath  was  ta'en  for  public 

use, 
1  broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 
1  spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch'd 

them  well. 
Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief 

done  ; 
And  yet  this  day  (tho'  you  should  hate 

me  for  it) 
1  came  to  tell  you  ;  found  that  you  had 

gone, 
Ridd'n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise  :  now,  I 

thought. 
That  surely  she  will  speak  ;  if  not,  then  I  : 
Did  she  ?  These  monsters  blazon'd  what 

they  were, 
According  to  the  coarseness  of  their  kind. 
For  thus  I  hear  ;  and  known  at  last  (my 

work) 
And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 
1  grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame,  she 

flies  ; 
And  I  remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your 

rage, 
I,  thathave  lent  mylife  to  build  up  yours, 
1  that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth, 

and  time, 
And  talents,   I  —  you  know  it  —  I  will 

not  boast  : 
Dismiss  me,  and  I  prophesy  your  plan. 
Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be  chaff 
Foreverygust  of  chance,  and  men  will  say 
We  did  notknowthe  real  light,  butchased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot  can 

tread." 

She    ceased  :    the    Princess    answer'd 

coldly  "  Good  : 
Your  oath  is  broken  :  we  dismiss  you :  go. 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the 

child) 
Our  mind  is  changed  :  we  take  it  to  our- 

self." 


THE   PRINCESS;   A   MEDLEY. 


263 


Thereat  the  Lady  stretch'd  a  vulture 

throat, 
And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a  haggard 

smile. 
•"'The  plan  was  mine.     I  built  the  nest " 

she  said 
•'  To   hatch   the   cuckoo.     Rise  !  "    and 

stoop'd  to  updrag 
ilelissa  :  she,  half  on  her  mother  propt, 
Half-droopins  from  her,  turn'd  her  face, 

and  cast 
A  liquid  look  ou  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 
W  hich  melted  Florian's  fancy  as  she  hung, 
A  Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out, 
Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven  ;  and 

while 
We  gazed  upon  her  came  a  little  stir 
About  the  doors,  and  on  a  sudden  nish'd 
Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pursued, 
A  woman-post  in  flying  raiment.     Fear 
Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk'd  her  face, 

and  wing'd 
Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she  fell 
Delivering  seal'd  despatches  which  the 

Head 
Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion's  mood 
Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 
Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over  brow 
And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrathful 

bloom 
As  of  some  tire  against  a  stormy  cloud. 
When  the  wild  peasant  rights  himself, 

the  rick 
Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the 

heavens  ; 
For  anger  most  it  seem'd,  while  now  her 

breast. 
Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her 

heart. 
Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we  heard 
In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she 

held 
Rustle  :  at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 
Sent  out  a  bitter  bleating  for  its  dam  ; 
The  plaintive  cry  jarr'd  on  her  ire  ;  she 

crush' d 
The  scrolls  together,  made  a  sudden  turn 
As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing  her. 
She  whirl'd  them  on  to  me,  as  who  should 

say 
"  Read,"  and  I  read  —  two  letters  —  one 

her  sire's. 

"  Fair   daughter,    when   we  sent  the 
Prince  your  way 
We   knew   not   your    ungi-acious   laws, 
which  learnt. 


We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are 

built. 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but 

fell 
Into  his  father's  hands,  who  has  this  night. 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 
Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested  you, 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his 

son." 

The  second  was  my  father's  running 

thus : 
"  You  liave  our  son  :  touch  not  a  hair  of 

his  head  : 
Render  him  up  unscathed :  give  him  your 

hand  : 
C  leave  to  your  contract  :  tho'  indeed  we 

hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  bettefr  man  ; 
A  rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 
Would  make    all  women    kick   against 

their  Lords 
Thro'  all  the  world,  and   which  might 

well  deserve 
That  we  this  night   should  pluck  your 

palace  down  ; 
And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us  back 
Our  son,  on  the  inslant,  whole." 

So  far  I  read  ; 
And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetuously. 

' '  0  not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your  reserve, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a  hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I  break 
Your  precinct  ;  not  a  scorner  of  your  sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be  :  hear  me,  for  I  bear, 
Tho'  man,  yet  human,  whatsoe'er  youi 

wrongs. 
From  the  fla.xen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a  life 
Less  mine  than  yours  :  my  nurse  would 

tell  me  of  you  ; 
I  babbled  for  you,  as  babies  for  the  moOn, 
Vague   brightness ;    when    a   boy,    you 

stoop'd  to  me 
From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair  lights. 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost 

south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north  ;  at  eve  and 

dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods  ; 
The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of 

glowworm  light 
The  mellow  breaker  murmur'd  Ida.  Now, 
Because  I  would  have  reach'd  you,  had 

you  been 


264 


THE   PKINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  en- 
throned 
Persffphone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 
Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 
A  man  I  came  to  see  you  :  but,  indeed, 
Not  in  this  frequence  can  1  lend  full 
tongue, 

0  noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre  :  let  me  say  but  this. 
That  many  a  famous  man  and  woman, 

town 
And  landskip,  have  I  heard  of,  after  seen 
The     dwarfs    of    presage ;     tho'    Avhen 

known,  there  grew 
Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing  :  but  in  you 

I  found 
My  boyish  dream  involved  and  dazzled 

down 
And  master'd,   while   that  after-beauty 

makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to 

hour. 
Within  me,   that    except  j'ou  slay  me 

here, 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 

1  cannot  cease  to  follow  3'ou,  as  they  say 
The  seal  does  music ;  who  desire  you  more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood  ;  dy- 
ing lips. 

With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do. 
The  breath  of  life  ;  0    more  than  poor 

men  wealth. 
Than  sick  men  health  —  yours,  yours, 

not  mine  - — but  half 
Without  you ;  with  you,  whole  ;  and  of 

those  lialves 
You  worthiest  ;  and  howe'er  you  block 

and  bar 
Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine, 

I  hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  n\irse  despair, 
But  in  the  teeth  of  clench'd  antagonisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 
Yet  that  I  came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father's  letter." 

On  one  knee 
Kneeling,  I  gave  it,  which  she  caught, 

and  dash'd 
Unopen'd  at  her  feet  :  a  tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem'd  to  wait  behind  her  lips, 
As  waits  a  river  level  with  the  dam 
Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  world  with 

foam  : 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but  there 

rose 
A  hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 


Gather'd  together  :  from  the  illumined 

hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o'er  a  press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded  ewes. 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and  gemlike 

eyes. 
And  gold  and  golden  heads  ;  they  to  and 

fro 
Fluctuated,  as   flowers   in  storm,  some 

red,  some  pale. 
All  open-mouth'd,  all  gazing  to  the  light, 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the 

land, 
And  some  that  men  were  in  theverywails, 
And  some  they  cared  not ;  till  a  clamor 

grew 
As  of  a  new-world  Babel,  womaa-built, 
And  worse -confounded  :  high  above  them 

stood 
The  placid  mai'ble  Muses,  looking  peace. 

Not  peace  she  look'd,  the  Head  :  but 

rising  up 
Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining 

there 
Fixt  like  a  beacon-tower  above  the  waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the 

light 
Dash   themselves  dead.     She   stretch'd 

her  arms  and  call'd 
Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

' '  What  fear  ye  brawlers  ?   am  not  1 

your  Head  ? 
On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks  : 

/  dare 
All  these  male  thunderbolts  :  what  is  it 

ye  fear  ? 
Peace  !  there  are  those  to  avenge  us  and 

they  come  : 
If  not,  — myself  were  like  enough,  0  girls. 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our  rights. 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war, 
Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 
Die  :  yet  Iblameyou  not  so  much  for  fear  | 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made  you 

that 
From  which  I  would  redeem  you  ;  but  for 

those 
That  stir  this  hubbub  —  you  and  you  — 

I  know 
Your  faces   there   in   the  crowd  —  to- 
morrow mom 
We  hold  a  great  convention  :  then  shall 

they 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


265 


That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty, 

learn 
With  wliom  they  deal,  dismiss'd  in  shame 

to  live 
No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  household 

stuff. 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other  s  fame. 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the 

clown, 
The  drunkanl's  football,  laughing-stocks 

of  Time, 
Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in 

their  heels. 
But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to 

thrum, 
To  tramp,  to  sci'eam,  to  burnish,  and  to 

scour, 
For  ever  slaves  at  home  and  fools  abroad. " 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands  :  thereat 

the  crowd 
Muttering,  dissolved  :  then  with  a  smile, 

that  look'd 
A  stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff. 
When  all  the  glens  are  drown'd  in  azure 

gloom 
Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us  and 

said  : 

"You  have  done  well  and  like  a  gen- 
tleman. 
And  like  a  prince  :  you  have  our  thanks 

for  all : 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman's 

dress  : 
Wellhaveyou  done  andlike  a  gentleman. 
You  saved  our  life :  we  owe  you  bitter 

thanks  : 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in 

the  flood  — 
Then  men  had  said  —  but  now  —  What 

hinders  me 
To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 

both?  — 
Yet  since  our  father  —  Wasps  in  our  good 

hive. 
You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light  to  be, 
Barbarians,    grosser    than   your   native 

bears  — • 
0  would  I  had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour ! 
You  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound, 

and  gull'd 
Our  servants,    wrong'd   and    lied    and 

thwarted  us  — 
/wed  with  thee  !    7 bound  by  precontract 
Your  bride,  your  bondslave ,'  not  tho'  all 

the  gold 


That  veins  the  world  were  pack'd  to  make 

your  crown, 
And  every  spoken   tongue  should   lord 

you.     Sir, 
Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hateful 

to  us  : 
I  trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you  : 
Begone  :  we  will  not  look  uj)on  you  more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates." 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of 

the  {ilou^'h 
Bent  their  broad   faces  toward   us  and 

address' d 
Their  motion  :  twice  I  sought  to  plead 

my  cause. 
But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy 

hands. 
The  weight  of  destiny  :  so  from  her  face 
They  push'd    us,  down  the   steps,  and 

tliro'  tlie  court. 
And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out  at 

gates. 

We  cross'd  the  street  and  gain'd  a  petty 

mound 
Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights  and 

beard 
The  voices  murmuring.  While  I  listen'd, 

came 
On  a  sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the 

doubt : 
I  seem'd  to  move  among  a  world  of  ghosts ; 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  woman- 
guard. 
The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by  side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the  kings 
Were  shadows  ;  and  the  long  fantastic 

night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not  been, 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not. 

This  went  by 
As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my  spirits 
Settled  a  gentle  cloud  of  melancholy  ; 
Not  long ;  I  shook  it  ofl' ;  for  spite  ot 

doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I  was  one 
To  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance  but 

came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a  hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Norway 

sun 
Set  into  sunrise  ;  then  we  moved  away. 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums, 
That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands ; 


266 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 
And  gives  the  battle  to  liis  hands  : 

A  moment,  wliile  the  trumpets  blow, 
He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 

The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 
Andstrikes  him  dead  forthine  and  thee. 

So   Lilia  sang :   we  thought  her  half- 

possess'd, 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro'  the 

words  ; 
And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she 

call'd 
The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sub- 
lime — 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a  dance  to  change 
The  music  —  clapt  her  hands  and  cried 

for  war. 
Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make  an 

end : 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue,  said, 
"Sir   Kalph  has  got  your  colors  :   if  I 

prove 
Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  Mhat 

for  me  ? " 
Itchanced,  hereaptygloveupon  thetomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a  model  of  her  hand. 
She  took  it  and  she  famg  it.     "  Fight " 

she  said, 
"And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great 

and  good." 
Heknightlikeinhis  cap  instead  of  casque, 
A  cap  of  Tyrol  borrow'd  from  the  hall. 
Arranged  the  favor,  and  assumed   the 

Prince. 


Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured  from 

the  mound, 
"We  stumbled  on  a  stationary  voice. 
And  "Stand,  who  goes?"    "Two  from 

the  palace  "  1. 
"The  second  two  :  they  wait,"  he  said, 

"pass  on  ; 
His   Highness  wakes "  :    and  one,  that 

clash' d  in  arms. 
By  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of  canvas, 

led 
Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 
The  drowsy  folds  ofourgreat  ensign  shake 
From  blazon'd  lions  o'er  the  imperial  tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
Dazed  me  half-blind. :  I  stood  and  seem'd 

to  hear, 


As  in  a  poplar  grove  when  a  light  wind 

wakes 
A  lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and 

dies. 
Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor's  ear  ;  and 

then 
A  strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there 

brake 
On  all  .sides,  clamoringetiquettetodeath, 
Unmeasured  mirth  ;  while  now  the  two 

old  kings 
Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  anddown^ 
The  fresh  young  captains  flash'd   theii 

glittering  teeth. 
The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved 

and  blew. 
And  slain  with  laughter  roU'd  the  gilded 

Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek 

wet  with  tears. 
Panted  from  weary  sides  ' '  King,  you  are 

free  ! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our  son, 
If  this  be  he,  ^  or  a  draggled  mawkin, 

thou, 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in  the 

sludge  "  : 
For  I  was  drench'd  with  ooze,  and  torn 

with  briers. 
More  crumpled  than  a  poppy  from  the 

sheath. 
And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head  to 

heel. 
Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted 

palm 
A  whisper'd  jest  to  some  one  near  him 

"  Look, 
He  has  been  among  his  shadows."     "  Sa- 
tan take 
The  old  women  and  their  shadows  1  (thus 

the  King 
Roar'd)  make  yourself  a  man  to  fight  with 

men. 
Go  :  Cyril  told  us  all." 

As  boys  that  slink 
From  ferule  and  the  trespass-chiding  eyC; 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a  trice 
From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman-slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden 

scale 
Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the 

Earth, 
And  hit  the  Northern  hills.     Here  Cyril 

met  us, 
A  little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


267 


We  twain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask'd  and 

given 
For  stroke  and  song,  resolder'd  peace, 

whereon 
Follow'd  his  tale.     Amazed  he  fled  away 
Thro'  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the  night 
Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping :  "  then  we 

fell 
into  your  father's  hand,  and  there  she  lies, 
But  will  not  speak,  nor  stir." 

He  show'd  a  tent 
A  stone-shot  off :  we  enter'd  in,  and  there 
Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutre- 
ments. 
Pitiful  sight,  wrapp'd  in  a  soldier's  cloak. 
Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from 

head  to  foot, 
And  push'd  by  rude  hands  from  its  ped- 
estal, 
Allher  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she  lay : 
And  at  her  head  a  follower  of  the  camp, 
A  charr'd  and  wrinkled  piece  of  womau- 

hood. 
Sat  watching  like  a  watcher  by  the  dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  "Come"  he 

whisper'd  to  her, 
"  Lift  uj)  your  head,  sweet  sister  :  lie  not 

thus. 
What  have  you  done  but   right  ?  you 

could  not  slay 
Me,  nor  your  prince  :  look  up  :  be  com- 
forted : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one 

ouglit. 
When  fall'u  in  darker  ways."     And  like- 
wise I : 
*'  Be  comforted  :  have  I  not  lost  her  too, 
In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless 

charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me  ? "     She  heard, 

she  moved, 
She  moan'd,  a  folded  voice  ;  and  up  she 

sat, 
■\nd  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as  pale 

and  smooth 
As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded  over 

death 
In  deathless  marble.      "Her"  she  said 

"  my  friend  — 
Parted  from  her —  betray'd  her  cause  and 

mine  — 
Where  shall  1  breathe  ?  why  kept  ye  not 

your  faith  ? 
0  base  and  bad  !  what  comfort  ?  none  for 

me  ! " 
To  whom  remorseful  Cyril  "\et  I  pray 


Take  comfort  :  live,  dear  lady,  for  your 

child  !  " 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried. 

"  Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah  my 

child, 
My  one  sweet  chik.  whom  I  shall  see  no 

more  ! 
For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back  ; 
And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of  carSj 
Or  sicken  with  ill-usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers  —  for  every  little  fault, 
The  child  is  hers  ;  and  they  will  beat  my 

girl 
Rememberhig  her  mother  :  0  my  flower  I 
Or  they  will  take  her,  they  will  make 

her  hard. 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With   some  cold  reverence   worse   than 

were  she  dead. 
Ill  mother  that  I  was  to  leave  her  there, 
To  lag  behind,   scared  by  the  cry  they 

made, 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them  all : 
But  1  will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors. 
And  make  a  wild  petition  night  and  day, 
Until  tliey  hate  to  hear  me  like  a  wind 
Wailing  for  ever,  till  they  open  to  me, 
And  lay  niy  little  blossom  at  my  feet. 
My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  my  one  child : 
And  1  will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way. 
And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her  : 
Ah  !  what  might  that  man  not  deserve 

of  me. 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child?"     "Be 

comforted  " 
Said  Cyril  ' '  you  shall  have  it "  :  but  again 
She  veil'd  her  brows,  and  prone  she  sank, 

and  so 
Like  tender  things  that   being   caught 

feign  death. 
Spoke  not,  nor  stirr'd. 

By  this  a  murmur  ran 
Thro'  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced  the 

scouts 
With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at  hand. 
We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found    the   gray  kings   at   parle :   and 

"  Look  you"  cried 
My  father  "  tliat  our  compact  be  fulfiU'd  : 
You  have  spoilt  this  child  ■,  she  laughs 

at  yoti  and  man  : 
She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me,  and 

him  : 
But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steeland  fire ; 
She  yields,  or  war." 

Then  Gama  tum'd  to  me  : 


268 


THE  PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


'We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a  stormy  tima 
With  our  strange  girl  :  and  yet  they  say 

that  still 
You  love  her.     Give  us,  then,  your  mind 

at  large  : 
How  say  you,  war  or  not  ? " 

"Not  war,  if  possible, 

0  king,"  I  said,  "  lest  from  the  abuse  of 

war. 
The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled  year, 
The    smouldering   homestead,   and   the 

household  ilower 
Tom  from  the  lintel  —  all  the  common 

wrong  — 
A  smoke  go  uj)  thro'  which  1  loom  to  her 
Three  times  a  monster  :  now  she  lightens 

scorn 
At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then 

Avould  hate 
(And  every  voice  she  talk'd  with  ratify  it, 
And  every  face  she  look'd  on  justify  it) 
The  general  foe.   More  soluble  isthisknot, 
B}^  gentleness  than  war.    1  want  her  love. 
AVhat  were  1  nigher  this  altho'  we  dash'd 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults, 
She  would  not  love  ;  —  or  brought  her 

chain' d,  a  slave. 
The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord, 
Not  ever  would  she  love  ;  but  brooding 

turn 
The  book  of  scorn,  till  all  myflitting  chance 
Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her 

Avrongs, 
And  crush'd  to  death  :  and  rather,  Sire, 

than  tliis 

1  would  the  old  God  of  war  himself  were 

dead. 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills. 
Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs  of 

wreck, 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk'd 

in  ice. 
Not  to  be  molten  out." 

And  roughly  spake 
My  father,  "Tut,  you  know  them  not, 

the  girls. 

Boy,  when  I  hearyou  prate  I  almostthink 

■  That  idiot  legend  credible.   Look  you.  Sir ! 

Man  is  the  hunter  ;  woman  is  his  game  : 

The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the 

chase. 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their  skins ; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  weride  them  down. 
Wheedling  and  siding  with  them  !    Out  ! 

for  shame  ! 
Boy,  there  's  no  rose  that 's  half  so  dear 

to  them 


As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  notd-T, 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  battle, 

comes 
With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him, 

and  leaps  in 
Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the 

score 
Flatter'd  and  fluster'd,  wins,  tho'  dash'd 

with  death 
He  reddens  what  he  kisses  :  thus  I  won 
Your  mother,  a  good  mother,  a  good  wife^ 
Worth  winning  ;   but  this  iirebrand  — 

gentleness 
To  such  as  her  !  if  Cyril  spake  her  true, 
To  catch  a  dragon  in  a  cherry  net, 
To  trip  a  tigress  with  a  gossamer, 
AVere  wisdom  to  it." 

"Yea  but  Sire,"  I  cried, 
' '  Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.     The 

soldier  ?     No  : 
What  daies  not  Ida  do  that  she  should 

prize 
The  soldier  ?    I  beheld  her,  when  she  rose 
The  yesternight,  and  stomiing  in  extremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance 

dowTi 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn'd 

the  death, 
No,  not  the  soldier's  :  yetlholdher,  king. 
True  woman  :  but  you  clash  them  all  in 

one. 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 
The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm  :  one  loves  the  soldier, 

one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this,  one 

that, 
Andsomeunworthily ;  their  sinless  faith, 
A  maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a  sty, 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr  ;  whence  they 

need 
More  breadth  of  culture  :  is  not  Ida  right  ? 
They  worth  it  ?  truer  to  the  law  within  ? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a  life  ? 
Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  eartli  and  heaven  ?  and  she  of  whom 

you  speak. 
My  mother,  looks  as  whole  as  some  serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists  ;  not  a  thought,  a 

touch. 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak  the 

white 
Ofthefirstsnowdrop'sinner leaves;  I  say, 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man. 
Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sensual 

mire. 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


269 


But  whole  and  one  :  and  take  them  all- 

iu-all, 
Wei'e  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as 

kind, 
As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claimsas  right 
Had  ne'er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly 

theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.     To  our  point  :  not 

war  : 
Lest  1  lose  all." 

"Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense" 
Said  Gania.     "  \Ve  remember  love  our- 

self 
In  our  sweet  youth  ;  we  did  not  rate  him 

tlieu 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with  blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida  :  she  can  talk  ; 
And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you  say  : 
But  you  talk  kindlier  :  we  esteem  you 

for  it.  — 
He  seems  a  gracious  and  a  gallant  Prince, 
I  would  he  had  our  daughter :  for  the  rest. 
Our    own   detention,    why,    the   causes 

weigh'd. 
Fatherly  fears  —  you  used  us  courteous- 
ly- 
We   would    do    much   to   gratify   your 

Prince  — 
We  pardon  it ;  and  for  your  ingress  here 
Upon  tlie  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair  land, 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the  night. 
Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  ploughman's 

head. 
Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss'd  the 

milking-maid. 
Nor  robb'd  tile  farmer  of  his  bowl  of  cream  : 
But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word  upon  it, 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  lis  to  our 

lines, 
"And  speak  with  Arac  :    Arac's  word  is 

thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida  :    something  may  be 

done  — 
I  know  not  what  —  and  ours  shall  see  us 

friends. 
You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you 

will, 
Follow  us  :  who  knows  ?   we  four  may 

build  some  plan 
Foursquare  to  opposition." 

Here  he  reach'd 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire,  who 

growl' d 
An  answer  which,  half-muffled  in   his 

beard. 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 


Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king  across 

the  lawns 
Beneath  huge  trees,  a  thousand  rings  of 

Spring 
In  every  bole,  a  song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines,  and 

woke 
Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 
In  the  oldking's  ears,  who  promised  help, 

and  oozed 
All  o'er  with  honey'd  answer  as  we  rode ; 
And  blossom-fragrant  slijjt  the  heavy  dews 
Gather'd  by  night  and  peace,  with  each 

light  air 
On  our  mail'd  heads  :  but  other  thoughts 

than  Peace 
Burnt  in  us,  when  we  saw  the  embattled 

squares, 
And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  trampling 

tlie  flowers 
Witli  clamor  :  for  among  them  rose  a  cry 
As  if  to  greet  the  king  ;  they  made  a  halt ; 
The  horses   yell'd  ;    they   clash'd   their 

arms  ;  the  drum 
Beat ;  merrily-blowing  shrill'd  the  mar- 
tial fife  ; 
And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long  horn 
And  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The   banner  :  anon  to  meet  us  lightly 

pranced 
Tliree  captains  out ;  nor  ever  had  I  seen 
Such  thews  of  men  :  the  midmost  and  the 

highest 
Was  Arac  :  all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play'd  uj)on  them,  made 

them  glance 
Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy  Giant's 

zone. 
That  glitter  burnish'd  by  the  frosty  dark  j 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue, 
And  bickers  into  I'ed  and  emerald,  shone 
Tlieir  morions,  wash'd  with  morning,  as 

they  came. 

And  I  that  prated  peace,  when  first  I 
heard 
War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of 

force, 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinew's  of  a  man. 
Stir  in  me  as  to  strike  :  then  took  the  king 
His  three  broad  sons  ;  with  now  a  wan- 
dering hand 
And  now  a  pointed  finger,  told  them  all  .- 
A  common  light  of  smiles  at  our  disguise 
Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the  windy 
jest 


270 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


Had  labor'd  down  within  his  ample  lungs, 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roU'd  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  hurst  out  in 
words. 

"Our  land  invaded,  'sdeath  !  and  he 
himself 

Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not  war : 

And,  'sdeath  !  myself,  what  care  I,  war 
or  no  ? 

But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  re- 
mains : 

And  there  's  a  downright  honest  mean- 
ing in  her ; 

She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  !  and 
yet 

She  ask'd  but  space  and  fauplay  for  her 
scheme  ; 

She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  —  I  myself, 

What  know  I  of  these  things  ?  but,  life 
and  soul  ! 

I  thought  her  half-right  talking  of  her 
wrongs  ; 

I  say  she  ilies  too  high,  'sdeath  !  what 
of  that  ? 

I  take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind, 

And  so  I  often  told  her,  light  or  wrong, 

And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sweet  to  those 
she  loves. 

And,  right  or  wrong,  I  care  not :  this  is  all, 

I  stand  upon  her  side  :  she  made  me 
swear  it  • — 

'Sdeath  —  and  vnth  solemn  rites  by  can- 
dle-light- 
Swear  by  St.  something  —  I  forget  her 
name  — 

Her  that  talk'd  down  the  fifty  wisest  men  ; 

S7)-e  was  a  princess  too  ;  and  so  I  swore. 

Come,  this  is  all ;  she  will  not  :  waive 
yom-  claim  : 

If  not,  the  foughten  field,  what  else,  at 
once 

Decides  it,  'sdeath  !  against  my  father's 
wiU." 

I  lagg'd  in  answer  loath  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless  war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper 

yet; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half  aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his  lip, 
To  prick  us  on  to  combat  ' '  Like  to  like  ! 
The  woman's  garment  hid  the  woman's 

heart." 
A  taunt  that  clench'd  his  purpose  like  a 

blow  ! 
For  fiery-short  was  Cyril's  counter-scoff, 


And  sharp  I  answer'd,  touch'd  upon  the 

point 
Where  idle  boys  are   cowards   to  their 

shame, 
"  Decide  it  here  :  why  not  ?  we  are  three 

to  three." 

Then  spake  the  third  "But  three  tc 

three  ?  no  more  ? 
No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister's  cause  ' 
More,  more,  for   honor  :  every  captain 

waits 
Hungry  for  honor,  angrj^  for  his  king. 
More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a  side,  that 

each 
May   breathe   himself,    and   quick  !   by 

overthrow 
Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled  die. " 

"Yea"    answer'd   I    "for   this   wild 

wreath  of  air. 
This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the  highest 
Foam  of  men's  deeds  —  this  honor,  if  ye 

will. 
It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 
Since,  what  decision  ?  if  we  fail,  we  fail, 
And  if  we  win,  we  fail  :  she  would  not 

keep 
Her  compact."     "  'Sdeath  !  but  we  will 

send  to  her," 
Said   Arac,    "worthy  reasons   why  she 

should 
Bide  by  this  issue  :  let  our  missive  thro', 
And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the 

Avord." 

"  Boj's  ! "  shriek' d  the  old  king,  but 

vainlier  than  a  hen 
To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool ;  for 

none 
Regarded  ;  neither  seem'd  there  more  to 

say  : 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father's  camp,  and 

found 
He  thrice  had  sent  a  herald  to  the  gates. 
To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our  claim, 
Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people's  life  :  three  times 

he  went : 
The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none 

appear'd  : 
He  batter'd  at  the  doors ;   none  came ; 

the  next. 
An  awful  voice  within  had  warn'd  him 

thence  : 
The  third,  and  those  eight  daughters  ol 

the  plough 


THE   PRINCESS:   A   MEDLEY. 


271 


Came  sallying  thro'  the  gates,  and  caught 

his  hair, 
And  so  belabor'd  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made  him  wild  :  not  less  one  glance 

he  caught 
Thro'  open  doors  of  Ida  station'd  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho'  conipass'd  by  two  armies  and  the 

noise 
Of  arms  ;  and  standing  like  a  stately  Pine 
Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag. 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right 

and  left 
Suck'd  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long 

hills  roll 
The  torrents,  dash'd  to  the  vale  :  and  yet 

her  will 
Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  1  told  the  king  that  I  was 

pledged 
To  fight   in   tonrney  for  my  bride,  he 

clash'd 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a  cry  ; 
Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the  lads  : 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and  state, 

perforce 
He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce 

demur : 
And  many  a  bold  knight  started  up  in 

heat, 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till 

death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the  field 
Flat  to  the  garden-wall :   and   likewise 

here. 
Above   the  garden's  glowing  blossom- 
belts, 
Acolumn'dentry shone  and  marblestairs, 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss'd  with 

Tomyris 
And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight, 
B'lt  now  fastbarr'd  :  so  hereupon  the  flat 
All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were  ham- 
mer'd  up. 
And  ail  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and  fro, 
With  message    and  defiance,   went  and 

came  ; 
Last,  Ida's  answer,  in  a  royal  hand. 
But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling 

words 
Oration-like.     I  kiss'd  it  and  I  read. 

"  0  brother,  you  have  known  the  pangs 
we  felt, 


What  heats  of  indignation  when  we  heard 
Of  those  that  iron-cramp'd  their  women's 

feet ; 
Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  pooi 

bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a 

scourge  ; 
Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the  fire 
Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots  ;  and 

of  those,  — 
Mothers,  —  that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 
Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running  flood, 

and  swoops 
The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the  heart 
ilade  for  all  noble  motion  :  and  1  saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker  times 
With   smoother  men :    the   old   leaven 

leaven'd  all  : 
Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil 

rights, 
No  woman  named  :  therefore  I  set  my 

face 
Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine 

own. 
Far  off  from  men  1  built  a  fold  for  them  : 
I  stored  it  full  of  i-ieh  memorial  : 
1  fenced  it  round  with  gallant  institutes, 
And  biting  laws  toscarethebeastsof  pri>y. 
And  prosper'd  ;  till  a  rout  of  saucy  boys 
Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr'd 

our  peace, 
Mask'd  like  our  maids,  blustering  1  know 

not  what 
Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext  held 
Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 
Seal'd  not  the  bond  —  the  striplings  !  — 

for  their  sport  !  — 
I  tamed  my  leopards  :  shall  I  not  tame 

these  ? 
Or  you  ?  or  I?  for  since  you  think  me 

touch'd 
In  honor—  what,  I  would  not  aught  of 

false  — 
Isnotourcausepure  ?  and  whereas  Iknow 
Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what  mother's 

blood 
You  drawfrom,  fight ;  you  failing,  I  abide 
AVhat  end  soever  :  fail  you  will  not.  Still 
Take  nothislife  :  he  risk'ditfor  myown ; 
His  mother  lives  :  yet  whatsoe'er  you  do. 
Fight  and  fight  well ;  strike  and  strike 

home.     0  dear 
Brothers,  the  woman's  Angel  guards  you, 

you 
The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our  cause, 
The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the  after- 
time. 


272 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


Your   very    armor    hallow'd,    and  your 

statues 
Rear'd,  sung  to,  when,  this  gad-fly  brusli'd 

aside, 
We  plant  a  solid  foot  into  the  Time, 
And  mould  a  generation  strong  to  move 
With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to  right, 

till  she 
Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children's, 

know  herself ; 
And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land  make 

her  free, 
A.nd,  ever  following  those  two  crowned. 

twins, 
Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the  fiery 

grain 
Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 
Between  the  Northern  ant   the  Southern 

mom." 

Then  came  a  postscript  dash'd  across 

the  rest. 
"See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your 

camp : 
We  seem  a  nest  of  traitors  —  none  to 

trust 
Since   our    arms    fail'd  —  this    Egypt- 
plague  of  men  ! 
Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their 

homes. 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here  :  indeed  I 

think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  one  unworthy  mother ;  which  she  left : 
She  shall  not  have  it  back  :    the  child 

shall  grow 
To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her  mind. 
I  took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  morning  :  there  the  tender  orphan 

hands 
Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem'd  to  charm 

from  thence 
The  wrath  I  nursed  against  the  world  : 

farewell." 

I  ceased  ;  he  said  :  "  Stubborn,  but 
she  may  sit 

Upon  a  king's  right  hand  in  thunder- 
storms, 

And  breed  uj)  warriors  !  See  now,  tho' 
yourself 

Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to  sloughs 

That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spin- 
dling king, 

This  Gama  swamp'd  in  lazy  tolerance. 

When  tho  man  wants  wei^-ht,  the  wo- 
man takes  it  up, 


And  topples  down  the  scales  ;  but  this 

is  fixt 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all ; 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the  hearth : 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle 

she  : 
Man  with  the  head  and  woman  with  the 

heart : 
]\Ian  to  command  and  woman  to  obey  ; 
All  else  confusion.     Look  you  !  the  gray 

mare 
Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  herwhinnyshrills 
From  tile  to  scullery,  and  her  small  good- 
man 
Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires 

of  Hell 
Mix  with  his  hearth:  but  you  —  she  's 

yet  a  colt  — 
Take,  break  her  :  strongly  groom'd  and 

straitly  curb'd 
She  might  not  rank  with  those  detestable 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home,  and 

brawl 
Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs  in 

the  street. 
They  say  she 's  comely  ;  there's  the  fairer 

chance : 
/  like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at  her  ! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  we. 
But  suffers  change  of  frame.     A  lusty 

brace 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly.    Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a  child 
Is  woman's  wisdom." 

Thus  the  hard  old  king  : 
I  took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon  : 
I  pored  upon  her  letter  which  I  held, 
And  on  the  little  clause  "take  not  his 

life  "  : 
I  mused  on  that  wild   morning  in  the 

woods. 
And  on  the  "Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 

win"  : 
I  tliought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had 

said. 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was 

to  end : 
Then  I  remember'd  that  burnt  sorcerer's 

curse 
That  one  should  fight  wi-th  shadows  and 

should  fall  ; 
And  like  a  flash  the  weird  affection  came : 
King,  camp,  and  college  turu'd  to  hollow 

shows  ; 
I  seem'd  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts, 
And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts, 
To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a  dream  i 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


273 


Ahd  ere  I  woke  it  was  the  point  of  noon, 
The  lists  were  ready.     Empanoplied  and 

plumed 
We  entcr'd  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a  wild  horn  in  a  land 
Of  echoes,  and  a  moment,  and  once  more 
The  trumpet,  and  again  :   at  which  the 

storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge  of 

spears 
Andriders  front  to  front,  until  they  closed 
In  conllict  with  the  crash  of  shivering 

points. 
And  thunder.     Yet  it  seem'd  a  dream, 

I  dream'd 
Of  fighting.     On  his  haunches  rose  the 

steed. 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance, 
And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the 

fire. 
Part  sat  like  rocks  :  part  reel'd  but  kept 

their  seats  : 
Part  roll'd  on  the  earth  and  rose  again 

and  drew  : 
Part  stumbled   mixt   with   floundering 

horses.     Down 
From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac's  side,  and 

down 
From  Arac's  ami,  as  from  a  giant's  flail. 
The  large  blows  rain'd,  as  here  and  every- 
where 
He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing 

lists, 
And  all  the  plain,  —  brand,  mace,  and 

shaft,  and  shield  — 
Shock'd,  like  an  iron-clanginganvil  bang'd 
With  hammers  ;  till  I  thought,  can  this 

be  he 
From  Gama's  dwarfish  loins  ?  if  this  be 

so. 
The  mother  makes  us  most  —  and  in  my 

dream 
J  glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace-front 
Alive  with  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies' 

eyes. 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue- 
like. 
Between  a  cymbal' d  Miriam  and  a  Jael, 
With  Psyche's  babe,  was  Ida  watching  i:s, 
A  single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair. 
Like  a  Saint's  glorj'  up  in  heaven  :  but 

she 
No  saint  —  inexorable — no  tenderness  — 
Too  hard,  too  cruel :  j-et  she  sees  me  fight, 
Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall !    with   that  I 

drave 


Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a 

Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.     Yea>  let  me  make  my 

dream 
All  that  I  would.     But  that  large-mould- 
ed man. 
His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a  wake, 
Made  at  me  thro'  the  press,  and,  stagger- 
ing back 
With   stroke   on   stroke   the  horse  and 

horseman,  came 
As  comes  a  pillar  of  electric  cloud. 
Flaying   the  roofs  anil   sucking  up  the 

drains, 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaign  till 

it  strikes 
On  a  wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 

cracks,  and  splits. 
And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a  roar 

that  Earth 
Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry  ;  for  every- 
thing 
Gave  way  before  him  :  only  Florian,  he 
That  loved  me  closer  than  his  own  right 

eye. 
Thrust  in  between  ;  but  Arac  rode  him 

down  : 
And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push'd  against  the 

Prince, 
With  P.syche's  color  round  his  helmet, 

tough, 
Strong,    supple,    sinew  -  corded,    apt   at 

arms  ; 
But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that 

smote 
And  threw  him  :  last  I  spurr'd  ;  I  felt 

my  veins 
Stretch  with  fierce  heat ;  a  moment  hand 

to  hand, 
And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to  horse 

we  hung, 
Till  I  struck  out  and  shouted  ;  the  blade 

glanced  ; 
I  did  but  shear  a  feather,  and  dream  and 

truth 
Flow'd  from  me  ;  darkness  closed  me  '■ 

and  I  fell. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  , 
She  nor  swoon'd,  nor  utter'd  cry  : 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Call'd  h'm  worthy  to  be  loved. 


274 


THE   PRINCESS  !   A   MEDLEY. 


'  Like  biimuict  icmpest  came  her  tears - 
'  Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee.'  " 


Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face  ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years, 
Set  liis  child  upon  her  knee  — 

liike  Slimmer  tempest  came  her  tears  - 
"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee," 


VL 

My  dream  had  never  died  or  lived  again. 
As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I  laj' ; 
Seeing  I  saw  not,  hearing  not  I  heard  ; 
Tho',   if   I   saw  not,    yet  thev  told  me 

all 
So  often  that  I  speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem'd,  or  so  they  said  to  me, 
That  all   things  grew  more  tragic  and 
more  strange  ; 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


275 


That  wlien  our  side  was  vanquish'd  and 

my  cause 
For  ever  lost,  there  weut  up  a  great  cry, 
The  Prince  is  slain.     My  lather  heard 

and  ran 
In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my  casque 
And  grovell'd  on  my  body,  and  after  him 
Came  Psyche,  sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche's  babe  in  arm  :    there  on 

the  roofs 
Like  thatgreat  dame  of  Lapidoth  she  sang. 

'*  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  : 
the  seed. 
The  little  seed  theylaugh'dat  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown 

a  bulk 
Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A  thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the  Sun. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  : 

they  came  ; 
The  leaves  were  wet  with  women's  tears  : 

they  heard 
A  noise  of  songs  they  would  not  unde.'- 

stand  ; 
They  mark'd  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the 

fall. 
And  would  have  strown  it,  and  are  fall'n 

themselves. 

"Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  : 

they  came, 
The  woodmen  with  their  axes :  lothe  tree  ! 
But  we  v.'ill  make  it  fagots  for  the  hearth. 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof 

and  floor, 
And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

"  Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  have  fall'n  : 
they  struck  ; 

With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  them- 
selves, nor  knew 

There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain  : 

The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their 
arms. 

Their  arms  were  shatter'd  to  the  shoulder 
blade. 

"Our  enemies  have  fall'n,  but  this 

shall  glow 
A  night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a 

breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropjjing  fruits  of  power; 

and  roll'd 


With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star. 

the  fangs 
Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

"  And  now,  0  maids,  behold  our  sanc^ 

tuary 
Is  violate,  our  laws  broken  :  fear  we  nol' 
To  break  them   more  in   their  behoof, 

whose  arms 
Champion'd  our  cause  and  won  it  with 

a  day 
Blanch'd  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual 

feast, 
When  dames  and  heroines  of  the  golden 

year 
Shall  strip  a  liundred  hollows  bare  of 

Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three  :  but 

come, 
We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are 

won. 
Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with  coarse 

mankind, 
111  nurses  ;  but  descend,  and  proffer  these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  causo, 

that  there 
Lie    bruised   and    maim'd,    the    tender 

ministries 
Of  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in 

her  arms, 
Descending,     burst    the    great    bronze 

valves,  and  led 
A  hundred  maids  in  train  across  the  Park. 
Some  cowl'd,  and  some  bare-headed,  on 

they  came. 
Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest :  by 

them  went 
The  enamor'd  air  sighing,  and  on  their 

curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  wavering 

fell, 
.\ndover  them  the  tremulous  isles  of  light 
Slided,  they  moving  under  shade  :  but 

Blanche 
At  distance  follow' d  :  so  they  came  :  anon 
Thro'  open  field  into  the  lists  they  wound 
Timorously  ;  and  as  the  leader  of  the  herd 
That  holds  a  stately  fretwork  to  the  Sun, 
And  follow'd  up  by  a  hundred  airy  does, 
Steps  with  a  tender  foot,  light  as  on  air. 
The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 
To   where  her  wounded  brethren  lay  ; 

tiiSre  stay'd ; 


276 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


Knelt  on  one  knee,  —  the  child  on  one, 
—  and  prest 

Their  hands,  and  call'd  them  dear  deliv- 
erers, 

And  happy  warriors,  and  immortal  names. 

And  said  "You  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents 
but  here. 

And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  you 
fought,  and  served 

With  female  hands  and  hospitality." 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or  was 

it  chance, 
She  past  my  way.     Up  started  from  my 

side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelpless 

eye. 
Silent ;  but  when  she  saw  me  lying  stark, 
Dishelm'd  and  mute,  and  motionlessly 

pale. 
Cold  ev'n  to  her,  she  sigli'd  ;  and  when 

she  saw 
The  haggard  father's  face  and  reverend 

beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the  blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder'd,  a  twitch  of  pain 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o'er  her  fore- 
head past 
A  shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and  she 

said  : 
"  He  saved  my  life  :    my  brother  slew 

him  for  it." 
No  more  :  at  which  the  king  in  bitter 

scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck   the  painting  and 

the  tress. 
And  held  them  up  :  she  saw  them,  and  a 

day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory. 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother,  shore 

the  tress 
With  kisses,  erethedaysof  Lady  Blanche : 
And  then  once  more  she  look'd  at  my 

pale  face  : 
Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all, 
Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind  ; 
Her  noble  heart  wasmolten  in  her  breast ; 
She  bow'd,  she  set  the  child  on  the  earth  ; 

she  laid 
A  feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  and  pres- 
ently 
"0  Sire,"  she  said,    "he  lives:   he  is 

not  dead  : 
0  let  me  have  him  with  iny  brethren  here 
In  our  own  palace  :  we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  ;  if  so,  by  any  means, 


To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks,  that 

make 
Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman's  goal." 

She  said  :  but  at  the  happy  word  "  he 

lives  " 
My  father  stoop' d,  re-father'd  o'er  my 

wounds. 
So  those  two  foes  above  my  fallen  life. 
With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and  even- 
ing mixt 
Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche  ever 

stole 
A  little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden 

brede. 
Lay  like  a  new-fall'n  meteor  on  the  grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and  began 
A  blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to 

dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent 

arms 
And  lazy  lingering  lingers.  She  the  appeal 
Brook'd  not,  but  clamoring  out,  "Mine  — 

mine  —  not  yours, 
It  is  not  yours,  but  mine  :  give  me  the 

child" 
Ceased  all  on  tremble  :  piteouswasthecry: 
So    stood    the   unhappy  mother    open- 
mouth' d, 
And  tuin'd  each  face  her  way  :  wan  was 

her  cheek 
With  hollow  watch,  her  blooming  man- 
tle torn. 
Red  grief  and  mother's  hunger  in  hereye. 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank   her  curls, 

and  half 
The  sacred  mother'sbosom,  panting, burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe  ;  but  she  nor 

cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida  heard, 
Look'd  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me, 

.stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her  glance 
Themother,  me,  thechild ;  but  hethatlay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter'd  as  he  was, 
Trail'd  himself  up  on  one  knee  ;  then  he 

drew 
Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  do'wn  she 

look'd 
At  the  arni'd  man  sideways,  pitying  as  it 

seem'd, 
Or  self-involved  ;  but  when  she  learnt  his 

face, 
Remembering  his  ill-omen'd  .song,  arose 
Once  more  thro'  all  her  height,  and  o'er 

him  grew 


THE   PRINCESiS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


277 


Tall  as  a  figure  lenj^heii'd  on  Liie  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and  he 
said  : 

"Ofairandstrongand  terrible !  Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Lion's 

mane  ! 
liut  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two  more 

terrible 
And  stronger.     See,  your  foot  is  on  our 

necks, 
We  vanquish'd,  vou  the  Victor  of  your 

will. 
What  would  3-ou  more?  give  her  the  child  ! 

remain 
Orb'd  in  your  isolation :  he  is  dead, 
Or  all  as  dead  :  henceforth  we  let  you  be  : 
Win  you  the  hearts  of  women  ;  and  beware 
Lest,   where  you  seek  the  common  love 

of  the.se, 
The    common  hate   with  tlie  revolving 

wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  gi'eat 

Nemesis 
Break  from  a  darken'd  future,  crown'd 

with  fire, 
And  tread  you  out  forever :  but  howsoe'er 
Fix'd  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own  arms 
To  hold  3'our  own,  deny  not  hers  to  her, 
Give  her  the  child  !  0  if,  1  say,  you  keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if  you 

loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled 

you, 
Orownonepartof  sense  not  flint  to  prayer. 
Give  her  the  child !  or  if  you  scorn  to 

lay  it, 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with 

yours. 
Or  speak toher,  yourdearest, herone  fault 
The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that   could 

not  kill. 
Give  7)ie  it :  I  will  give  it  her." 

He  said  : 
At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roU'd 
Dry  flame,  she  listening ;  after  sank  and 

sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing, 

dwelt 
Full  on  the  child ;  she  took  it :  "  Pretty 

bud! 
Lily  of  the  vale  !  half  open'd  bell  of  the 

woods ! 
Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  whan  a  world 
Of  iraitorous  friend  and  broken  system 

made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery, 


Pledge  of  a  love  not  to  be  mine,  farewell ; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old, 
We  two  must  part  :  and  yet  how  fain  was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine, 

to  think 
i  might  be  something  to  thee,  when  1  felt 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren 

breast 
In  the  dead  prime  :  but  may  thy  mothe: 

prove 
As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to  me  J 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke, 

1  wish  it 
Gentle  as  freedom"  —  Iku'C  she  kiss'd  its 

then  — 
"All  good  go  with  thee  !  take  it  Sir" 

and  so 
Laid  the   soft  babe   in  his  hard-mailed 

hands. 
Who  turn'd  half-round  to  Psyche  as  she 

sjjrang 
To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in 

thanks ; 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head 

to  foot, 
And  hugg'd  and  never  hugg'd  it  close 

enough. 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth'd  and  mum- 
bled it. 
And  liid  her  bosom  witli  it ;  after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  andaddedsu2)pliantly ; 

"  We  two  were  friends  :  I  go  to  mine 

own  land 
For  ever :  find  some  other :  as  for  me 
I  scarce  am  lit  for  your  great  plans  :  yet 

speak  to  me. 
Say   one   soft    word   and   let    me   part 

forgiven." 

I5ut  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the  child. 
Then  Arac.    "Ida — 'sdeath  !  you  blam., 

the  man  ; 
You  wrong  yourselves  —  the  woman  it 

so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.     Come,  a  grace  to  me ; 
I  am  your  warrior :  I  and  mine  have  fought 
Your  battle  :  kiss  her ;  take  her  hand, 

she  W'eeps : 
'Sdeath  !  I  would  sooner  fight  thrice  o'er 

than  see  it." 

But  I  da  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the  ground, 
And    reddening  in  the  furrows  of   his 

chin^ 
And  moved  beyond  his  custom,   Garaa 

said  -• 


278 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


"  I  've  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the 

blood, 
And  I  believe  it.  Not  one  word?  not  one? 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper  ?  not 

from  me, 
Not  fi'om  your  mother  now  a  saint  with 

saints. 
She  said  you  had  a  heart — I  heard  her 

say  it — 
'Our   Ida  has   a  heart' — just    ere  she 

died — 
'But  see  that  someone  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still "  and  I  —  I  sought  for 

one — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority — 
The  Lady  Blanche  :  much  profit  !      Not 

one  word ; 
No  !  tho'  your  father  sues  :  see  how  you 

stand 
Stiff  as  Lot's  wife,  and  all  the  good  knights 

maim'd, 
I  trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death, 
For  your  wild  whim  :  and  was  it  then  for 

this.. 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up, 
Whei'e  we  witiidrew  from  summer  heats 

and  state. 
And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath  the 

planes. 
And  many  a  pleasant  hour  with  her  that's 

gone. 
Ere  3^ou  were  born  to  vex  us  ?  Is  it  kind  ? 
Speak  to  her  I  say  :  isthisnotsheof  whom, 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush'd  you  said 

to  me 
Now  had  you  got  a  friend  of  your  own  age, 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought ;  now 

should  men  see 
Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock ;  she  you  walk'd 

with,  she 
You  talk'd  with,  whole  nights  long,  up 

in  the  tower. 
Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth, 
And  right  ascension,  Heaven  knows  what ; 

and  now 
A  word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  word. 
Not  one  to  spare  her:  out  upon  you,  flint  ! 
You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any ;  naj^ 
You  shame  your  mother's  judgment  too. 

Not  one? 
You  will  n(y,l  well  —  no  heart  have  you, 

or  such 
As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a  nut 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitterness." 
So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond  his 

wont.  I 


But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  di-ain'd  of  hei 

force 
By  many  a  varying  influence  and  so  long. 
Down  thro'  her  limbs  a  drooping  languoi 

wept : 
Her  head  a  little  bent ;  and  on  her  mouth 
A  doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a  clouded 

moon 
In  a  still  water  :  then  brake  out  my  sire 
Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds. 

"  0  you. 
Woman,  whom  we  thought  woman  even 

now, 
And  were  half  fool'd  to  let  you  tend  our 

son, 
Because  he  might  have  wish'd  it  —  but 

we  see 
The  accomplice  of  your  madness  unfor- 

given, 
And  think  that  you  might  mix  his  draught 

with  death, 
When    your   skies   change   again  :    the 

rougher  hand 
Is  safer  :  on  to  the  tents  :  take  up  the 

Prince." 

He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was  prick'd 
to  attend 
A  tempest,  thro'  the  elcud  that  dimm'd 

her  broke 
A  genial  warmth  and  light  once  more, 

and  shone 
Thro'  glittering  drops  on  her  sad  friend. 
' '  Come  hither. 

0  Psyche,"  she  cried  out,  "embi'aceme, 

come. 
Quick  while  I  melt ;  make  reconcilement 

sure 
With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind  an 

hour  : 
Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander  so  ! 
Kiss  and  be  friends,  like  children  being 

chid  ! 
/  seem  no  more  :  /  want  forgiveness  too : 

1  should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but 

maids. 
That  have  no  links  with  men.     Ah  false 

but  dear. 
Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why?  — 

why  ?  —  Yet  see, 
Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet 

once  more 
With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion, 
And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  0  sire, 
G''ant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,   to  wa" 

upon  him, 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


279 


Lilce  mine  own  brother.     For  my  debt  to 

him, 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  I 

know  it ; 
Taimt  me  no  more  :  yourself  and  yours 

sjiall  have 
Free  adit ;  we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper 

hearth  : 
vVTiatuse  to  keep  them  here — now  ?  grant 

my  prayer. 
Help,  father,  brother,  help  ;  speak  to  the 

king  : 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch  of 

that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drags 

me  down 
From  my  fi.xt  height  to  mob  me  up  with  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  womankind, 
Poor  weakling  ev'n  as  they  are." 

Passionate  tears 
Follow'd  :  the  king  replied  not  :   Cyril 

said  : 
"  Your  brother.  Lady,  —  Florian,  — ask 

for  him 
Of  your  great  head  —  for  he  is  wounded 

too  — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 

prince." 
"Ay  so,"  said  Ida  with  a  bitter  smile, 
' '  Ourlawsare  broken :  let  him  enter  too." 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mournful 

song. 
And  had  a  cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain, 
Petition'd  too  for  him.      "Ay  so,"  she 

said, 
"  I  stagger  in  the  stream  :  I  cannot  keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling 

hour  : 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let  it  be." 
"Ay  so  ?"  .said  Blanche  :  "Amazed  am 

I  to  hear 
YourHighness :  but  your  Highness  breaks 

with  ease 
The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make  : 

't  was  1. 
I  had  been  wedded  wife,  I  knew  mankind. 
And  block'd  them  out ;  but  these  men 

came  to  woo 
Your  Highness  —  verily  I  think  to  win." 

So  she,  and  tum'd  askance  a  wintry 
eye  : 
But  Ida  with  a  voice,  that  like  a  bell 
Toll'd  by  an  earthquake  in  a  trembling 

tower, 
Rang  ruin,  answer'dfuUofgrie  ."and  scorn. 


"  Fling  our  doors  wide  !  all,  all,  not 

one,  but  all, 
Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother's  soul, 
Wliatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or  foe, 
Shall  enter,  if  he  will.     Let  our  girls  flit, 
Till  the  .storm  die  !  but  had  you  stood  by 

us. 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from  hit 

base 
Had  left  us  rock.     She  fain  would  sting 

us  too. 
But  shall  not.     Pass,  and  mingle  with 

your  likes. 
We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are  gone." 

She  tum'd  ;  the  very  nape  of  her  white 

neck 
Was  rosed  with  indignation  :    but   the 

Prince 
Her  brother  came  ;  the  king  her  father 

charm'd 
Her  wounded  soul  with  words  :  nor  did 

mine  own 
Refuse  her  proffer,  lastly  gave  his  hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead  weights, 

and  bare 
Straight  to  the  doors  :  to  them  the  doors 

gave  way 
Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry  shriek'd 
The  Anrgin  marble  under  iron  heels  : 
And  on  they  moved  and  gain'd  the  hall, 

and  there 
Rested  :   but  great  the  crush  was,  and 

each  base. 
To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 

drown 'd 
In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisperers  :  at  the  further  end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great  cats 
Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a  shield, 
Bow-back'd  with  fear  :  but  in  the  centre 

stood 
The   common    men   with   rolling  eyes ; 

amazed 
They  glared  upon  the  women,  and  ag'nast 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent,  save 
When  armor  clash'd  or  jingled,  while  the 

day. 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall,  and 

shot 
A  flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and  steel. 
That  o'er  the  statues  leapt  from  head  to 

head. 
Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the  helm. 
Now  set  a  wrathful  Dian's  moon  on  flame, 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started  up, 


280 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A  MEDLEY. 


And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to  room, 

and  died 
Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

Then  the  voice 
Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 
And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs, 

and  thro' 
The  long-laid  galleries  past  a  hundred 

doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound, 

and  due 
To  languid  limbs  and  sickness  ;  left  me 

in  it ; 
And  others  otherwhere  they  laid  ;  and  all 
That  afternoon  a  sound  arose  of  hoof 
And  chariot,  manyamaiden  passing  home 
Till  happier  times  ;  but  some  were  left 

of  those 
Heldsagest,  and  the  great  lords  out  and  in, 
From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside  the 

walls, 
Walk'd  at  their  will,  and  everything  was 

changed. 


Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw 
the  sea  ; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 

take  the  shape. 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 
But  0  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  what  answer  should  I 
give  ? 
I  lo\'e  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  0  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee 
die! 
Askmenomore,  lest  Ishouldbid  thee  live; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal'd  : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in 

vain  : 
Let  the  great  river  take   me  to  the 
main  : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


VII. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated. 
So  their  fair  college  turn'd  to  hospital  ; 
At  first  with  all  confusion  :  by  and  by 
Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other  laws  : 


A  kindlier  influence  reign'd  ;  and  every- 
where 
Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 
Hung  round  the  sick  :  the  maidens  came, 

they  talk'd, 
They  sang,  they  read  :  till  she  not  fair, 

began 
To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  became 
Her  former  beauty  treble  ,  and  to  and  fro 
With  books,  with  flowers,  with  Angel  of- 
fices. 
Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act, 
And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they 
moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell. 
And  hatred  of  her  weakness,  blent  with 

sliame. 
Old   studies  fail'd  ;    seldom  she  spoke ; 

but  oft 
Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for 

hours 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening   her  female  field :    void  was 

her  use, 
And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black 

cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of 

night, 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to 

shore. 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from  the 

sand. 
And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn  by 

tarn 
Expunge  the  world  :  so  fared  she  gazing 

there  ; 
So  blacken'dall  her  world  in  secret,  blank 
And  waste  it  seem'd  and  vain  ;  till  down 

she  came. 
And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among 

the  sick. 

And  twilight  dawn'd  ;  and  morn  by 

morn  the  lark 
Shot  up  and  shrill'd  in  flickering  gyres, 

but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life  : 
And   twilight  gloom'd  ;    and    broader  ■= 

grown  tlie  bowers 
Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves, 

and  Heaven, 
Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ;  but  I, 
Deeper  than   those  weird  doubts  could 

reach  me,  lay 
Quite  sunder' J  from  the  moving  Universe^ 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A   ]\rEDLEY. 


281 


Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the 

hand 
That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in  their 

sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian  :  with  her 

oft, 
Melissa  came  ;  foi  Blanche  had  gone,  but 

left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should 

keep 
Court-favor :   here  and  there  the  small 

bright  head, 
A  light  of  healing,  glanced  about   the 

coucli, 
Or  thro'  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep'd,  sliining  in  upon  the  wounded  man 
With  blush   and   smile,  a   medicine  in 

themselves 
To  wile  the  lengthfromlanguoroushours, 

anil  draw 
The  sting  from  pain  ;  nor  seem'd  it  strange 

that  soon 
He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair  chari- 
ties 
Join'd  at  her  side  ;  nor  stranger  seem'd 

that  hearts 
So  gentle,  so  employ'd,  should  close  in 

love, 
Than  when  two  dewdrops  on  the  petal 

shake 
To   the   same   sweet   air,    and    tremble 

deeper  down. 
And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit  ob- 

tain'd 
At  first  with  Psyche.    Not  tho'  Blanche 

had  sworn 
That  after  that  dark  night  among  the 

fields, 
She  needs  must  wed   him  for  her  own 

good  name  ; 
N"ot  the'  he  built  upon  the  babe  restored  ; 
Nor  tho'  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  but 

fear'd 
To  incense  the  Head  once  more  ;  till  on 

a  day 
When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Seen  but  of  Psyche  :  on  her  foot  she  hung 
A  moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which  her 

face 
A  little  flush'd,  and  she  past  on  ;  but  each 
Assumed  from  thence  a  half-consent  in- 
volved 
Ib  stillness,  plighted  troths  and  were  at 

peace. 


Nor  only  these  :  Love  in  the  sacred  halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maiJ 

and  man. 
Nordid  her  father  cease  to  press  my  claim. 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled  ;  nor 

yet 
Did  those  twin  brothers,  risen  again  and 

whole  ; 
Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I  lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she  sat : 
Then  came  a  change  ;  for  sometimes  I 

would  catch 
Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a  viper  off,  and  shriek 
"  You  are  not  Ida  "  ;  clasp  it  once  again. 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho'  I  knew  her  not. 
And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony, 
And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which  seem'd 

a  truth  : 
And  still  she  fear'd  that  I  should  lose  my 

mind. 
And  often  she  believed  that  I  should  die : 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care. 
And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary 

noons, 
.\nd  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when 

clocks 
Throbb'd  thunder  thro'  the  palace  floors, 

or  call'd 
On   flying  Time   from   all   their  silver 

tongues  — • 
And  out  of  memories   of  her  kindlier 

days. 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father's  grief. 
And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart  — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken  love. 
And   lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter'd 

dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 
And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted 

cheek  — 
From  all  a  closer  interest  flourish'd  up. 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to 

these. 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with 

tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier  ;  frail  at 

first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself. 
But  such  as  gather' d  color  day  by  day. 

Last  T  woke  sane,  but  wellnigh  close 
to  death 
For   weakness  :   it  was  evening :   silent 
light 


282 


THE  PRINCESS  :   A    MEDLEY. 


Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein  were 

wrought 
Two  grand  designs  ;  for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  storm'd 
At  the  Oppian  law.    Titanic  shapes,  they 

cramm'd 
The  forum,  and  half-crush'd  among  the 

rest 
A  dwarf-like  Cato  cower'd.    On  the  other 

side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ;  beliind, 
A  train  of  dames  :  by  axe  and  eagla  sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Eoman 

scowls, 
And  half  the  wolf  s-milk  curdled  in«their 

veins. 
The  fierce  triumvirs  ;   and  before  them 

paused 
Hortensia,  pleading  :  angiy  was  her  face. 

I  saw  the  forms :  I  knew  not  where  I 

was: 
They  did  but  look  like  hollow  shows;  nor 

more 
Sweet  Ida  :  palm  to  palm  she  sat :  the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  seem'd :  I  moved  :  1  sigh'd : 

a  touch 
Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my 

hand : 
Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I 

had, 
And  like  a  flower  that  cannot  all  unfold, 
Sodrench'd  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun, 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I  on  her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter'd  whisper- 

ingly  : 

"If  you  be,  what  I  think  you,  some 

sweet  dream, 
I  would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself  : 
But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whora  I  knew, 
I  ask  you  nothing  :  only,  if  a  dream. 
Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.     I    shall   die 

to-night. 
Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  meere  I  die. " 

I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in 

trance, 
Thdt  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his 

friends. 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make 

one  sign. 
But  lies   and   dreads   his   doom.      She 

turn'd  ;  she  paused  ; 
Shestoop'd ;  andoutoflanguorleaptacry; 


Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of 

death ; 
And  I  believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida's  at  the  lips  ; 
Till  back  I  fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she 

rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame ;  and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a  robe, 
And  left  her worcan,  lovelier  inhermood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she 

came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with 

love; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt . 

and  she 
Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island-sides. 
Naked,  a  double  light  in  air  and  wave. 
To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck'd 

her  out 
For  worship  mthout   end  ;  nor  end  of 

mine, 
Stateliest,  for  thee  !  but  mute  she  glided 

forth. 
Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I  sank  and 

slept, 
Fill'd  thro'  and  thro'  with  Love,  a  happy 

sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I  woke  :  she,  near 
me,  held 
A  volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land : 
There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she  read. 

"  Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now 

the  white  ; 
Nor  waves  the  C3'press  in  the  palffce  walk  ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry 

font : 
The  fire-fly  wakens:  waken  thou  with  me. 

"  Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock 
like  a  ghost. 
And  like  a  ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

"  Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the 
stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

"  Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on.  and 
leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

' '  Now  foldsthelilyallhersweetnessup, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and 

slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me." 


THE   PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


283 


^^'ii^;fw:i:^' 


"  Come  down,  O  maid,  from  yonder  mountain  height ! 
What  f)leasure  lives  in  height  (tlie  shepherd  sang) 
In  hei^lit  and  cold,  tile  splendor  of  the  hills  ?  " 


I~heard  her  turn  the  page  ;  she  found 
a  small 
Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she 
read : 

"  Come  down,  0  maid,  from  yonder 
mountain  height : 
A'^hat  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shep- 
herd sang) 
.n  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the 

hills  ? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens, 

and  cease 
To  glide  a  sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 
To  sit  a  star  iipon  the  sparkling  spire  ; 
And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him  ;  by  the  luippy  threshold,  he, 
Orhand  inhand  with  Plentyinthe  maize, 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 


Or  foxlike  in  the  vine  ;  nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  .silver 

horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white 

ravine. 
Nor  iind  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That   huddling   slant   in  furrow-cloven 

falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors  : 
But  follow  ;  let  the  torrent  dance  thee 

down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley  ;  let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and 

spill 
Their    thousand    wreaths    of    dangling 

water- smoke. 
That  like  a  broken  purpose  waste  in  air  : 
So  waste  not  thou ;  but  come ;  for  all 

the  vales 


284 


THE   PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Await  thee  ,  azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee  ;  the  children  call,  and  1 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every 

sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is 

sweet ; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro'  the 

lawn. 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees." 

So  she  low-toned  ;  while  with  shut 

eyes  1  lay 
Listening ;  then  look'd.     Pale  was  the 

perfect  face  ; 
The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor' d  ;  and 

meek 
Seem'd  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  lu- 
minous eyes. 
And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand. 

She  said 
Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail'd 
In  sweet  humility  ;  had  fail'd  in  all ; 
That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a  block 
Left  in  the  quarry ;  butshestillwereloath, 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to  one. 
That  wholly  scorn'd  to  help  their  equal 

rights 
Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous 

laws. 
She  pray'd  me  not  to  judge  their  cause 

from  her 
That  wrong' d  it,  sought  far  less  for  truth 

than  power 
In  knowledge  :   something  wild  within 

her  breast, 
A  gi-eater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her 

down. 
And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from  week 

to  week  : 
Muchhadshelearntinlittletime.   In  part 
It  was  ill  counsel  liad  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts  :  yet  was  she  but  a 

girl  — 
-'*  Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a  Queen  of 

farce  ! 

Whencomesanothersuch  ?  never,  Ithink, 

Pill  the  Sun  drop  dead  from  the  .signs." 

Her  voice 

Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her 

hands, 
And  her  great  heart  thro'  all  the  faultful 

Past 
Went  sorrowing  in  a  pause  I  dared  not 

break  ; 
Till  notice  of  a  change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lispt  about  the  acacias,  and  a  bird, 


That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 
Sent  from  a  dewy  breast  a  cry  for  light ; 
She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume  felL 

"  Blame  not  thyself  too  much,"  I  said^ 

"nor  blame 
Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous 

laws  ; 
These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world 

till  now. 
Henceforth  thou  hast  a  helper,  me,  that 

know 
The  woman's  cause  is  man's  :  they  rise 

or  sink 
Together,  dwarf'd  or  godlike,  bond  or  free : 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with 

man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to 

one  goal. 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her 

hands  — 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable. 
How  shall  men  grow  ?  but  work  no  more 

alone ! 
Our  place  is  much  :  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding 

her  — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her 

down  — 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her — let  her  make  herself  herown 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  woman- 
hood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man. 
But  diverse  :  could  we  make  her  as  the 

man. 
Sweet  Love  were  slain  :  his  dearest  bond 

is  this. 
Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 
Yet  in  thelongyearsliker  must  they  grow; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  .she  of  man  ; 
He  gain  in  .sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw 

the  world  ; 
She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward 

care. 
Nor  lose  the  childlikein  the  larger  mind; 
Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man. 
Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 
And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of 

Time, 
Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ'd  in  all  theii 

powers. 
Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


285 


Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  otherev'n  as  those  who  love. 

Tlien  conies  the  statelier  Eden  back  to 
men : 

Then  reign   the   woi'ld's  great   bridals, 
chaste  and  calm  : 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  hu- 
mankind. 

May  these  things  be  !  " 

Sighing  she  spoke  "  I  fear 

They  will  not. " 

"  Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 

la  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watch- 
word rest 

Of  equal  ;  seeing  either  sex  alone 

Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 

Nor  equal,  nor  uneipial  :  each  fulfils 

Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in 
thonght, 

Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 

The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal, 

The  two-cell'd  heart  beating,  with  one 
full  stroke. 

Life." 
And  again  sighing  she  spoke  :  "A  dream 

That  once  was  mine  I  what  woman  taught 
you  this  ? " 

"Alone"  I  said  "from  earlier  than  I 

know. 
Immersed  in  rich  foreshadowings  of  the 

world, 
I  loved  the  woman  :  he,  that  doth  not,  lives 
A  drowning  life,  l)e.sotted  in  sweet  self, 
Or  pines  in  sad   experience  worse  than 

death. 
Or  keeps  his  wing'd  affections  dipt  with 

crime  : 
Yet  was  there  one  thro'  whom  I  loved 

her,  one 
Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household 

ways. 
Not  ]ierfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants. 
No  Angel,  but  a  dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men. 
Who  look'dall  nativeto  her  place,  andyet 
On  tiptoe  seeni'd  to  touch  upon  a  sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds 

perforce 
Bway'd  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they 

moved. 
And  girdled  her  with  music      Hapjjy  he 
With  such  amother !  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust    in  all 

things  high 


Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho'  he  trip  and 

fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay." 

"  But  I," 
Said  Ida,  tremulously,  "so  all  unlike  — 
It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with 

words : 
This  mother  is  your  model.    I  have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts  :  they  well  might 

be  :   I  seem 
Amockcry  tomy  own  self.   Never,  Prince ; 
You  cannot  love  me." 

"  Nay  but  thee  "  I  said 
"From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured 

eyes. 
Ere  seen  I  loved,  and  loved  thee  seen, 

and  saw 
Thee  woman  thro'  the  crust  of  iron  moods 
That  mask'd  thee  from  men's  reverence 

up,  ami  forced 
Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood  : 

now, 
Giv'n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro' 

thee. 
Indeed  I  love  :  the  new  day  comes,  the 

light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 
Lived  over  :  lift  thine  eyes  ;  my  doubts 

are  dead. 
My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows  :  the 

change. 
This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill'd  it. 

Dear, 
Lookup,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine, 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half- 
world  ; 
Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon  my 

brows  ; 
In  that  fine  air  1  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and 

this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland 

reels 
Athwart  the   smoke  of  burning  weeds. 

Forgive  me, 
I  waste  my  heart  in  signs  :  let  be.     My 

bride. 
My  wife,  my  life.     0  we  will  walk  this 

world. 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 
And  so  thro'  those  dark  gates  across  the 

wild 
That  no  man  knows.     Indeed  I  love  thee: 

come. 
Yield  thyself  up  :  my  hopes  and  thine 

are  one  ; 


286 


THE  PRINCESS:   A  MEDLEY. 


Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thy- 
self ; 

Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and  trust 
to  me." 


CONCLUSION. 

So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I  give  you  all 
The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it  rose  : 
The  words  are  mostly  mine  ;  for  when 

we  ceased 
There  came  a  minute's  pause,  and  Walter 

said, 
"I  wishshe  hadnot  yielded  ! '""  then  tome, 
"What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically  !  " 
So  pray'd  the  men,  the  women  :  I  gave 

assent : 
Yet  how  to  bind  the  scattered  scheme  of 

seven 
Together  in  one  sheaf  ?   What  style  could 

suit  ? 
The  men  required   that   I   should 'give 

throughout 
The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 
With  which  we  banter'd  little  Lilia  first  : 
The  women  —  and  perhaps  thej'  felt  their 

power. 
For  something  in  the  ballads  which  they 

sang. 
Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat, 
Had  ever  seem'd  to  wrestle  with  burlesque. 
And  drove  us,  last,   to  quite  a  solemn 

close  — 
They  hated  banter,  wish'd  for  something 

real, 
A  gallant  fight,  a  noble  princess  —  why 
Notmakehertrue-heroic — true-sublime? 
Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close  ? 
Which  yet  with  such  a  framework  scarce 

could  be. 
Then  rose  a  little  feud  betwixt  the  two. 
Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists  : 
And  I,   betAvixt  them  both,   to  please 

them  both, 
And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 
I  moved  as  in  a  strange  diagonal. 
And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  nor 

them. 

But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took  no 

part 
In  our  dispute  :  the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had  touch'd  her ;  and  shs  sat,  she  pluck'd 

the  grass, 
Bhe  flung  it  from  her,  thinking*  last. 

she  lixt 


A  showery  glance  upon  heraunt,  and  said, 
' '  You  —  tell  us  what  we  are  "  who  might 

have  told. 
For  she  was  cramm'd  with  theories  out 

of  books, 
But  that  there  rose  a  shout :  the  gates 

were  closed 
At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarming 

now. 
To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden  rails. 

So  I  and  some  went  out  to  these  :  we 

climb'd 
The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turningsaw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and  half 
Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a  land  of 

peace  ; 
Gray  halls   alone  among  their  massive 

groves  ; 
Trim  hamlets  ;  here  and  there  a  rustic 

tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths  of 

wheat ; 
The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a  stream  ; 

the  seas  ; 
A  red  sail,  or  a  white  ;  and  far  beyond. 
Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts  of 

France. 

"Look   there,   a  garden!"  said   my 

college  friend. 
The  Tory  member's  elder  son  "  and  there  ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps 

her  ofl". 
And   keeps   our  Britain,   whole  within 

herself, 
A  nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled  — 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a  faith. 
Some  i-evcrence  for  the  laws  ourselves 

have  made. 
Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when 

we  will, 
Some   civic    manhood  firm  against  the 

crowd  — 
But  yonder,  wh  ff"!  there  comes  a  sudden 

heat. 
The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his  head. 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not 

light. 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 
A  kingdom  topples  over  with  a  shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the 

world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a  schoolboys'  barring  out  j 
Too  comic  for  *he  solemn  things  they  are, 


THE   PRINCESS  :   A   MEDLEY. 


287 


Poo  solemn  for  thvj  comic  toadies  in  them, 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a  dream 
As  some  of  theirs  —  God  bless  the  naVrow 

seas  ! 
I  wish  they  were  a  wliole  Atlantic  broad." 

"Have patience,"  Ireplied,  "ourselves 

are  full 
Of   social    wrong ;  and  maybe    wildest 

dreams 
Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth  : 
For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy  crowd, 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a  faith. 
This  tine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a  child 
Yet  in  tlie  go-cart.     Patience  !     Give  it 

time 
To  learn  its  limbs  :  there  is  a  hand  that 

guides." 

In  such  discourse  we  gaiu'd  the  gar- 
den rails, 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he 

stood, 
Before  a  tower  of  crimson  holiy-oaks, 
Among  six  boys,  head  under  head,  and 

look'd 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 
A  great  broad-shoulder'd  genial  English- 
man, 
A  lord  of  f;it  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 
A  raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 
A  patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 
A  pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 
A  quarter-sessions  cliairman,  abler  none  ; 
Fair-hair'dand  redder  than  a  windy  morn  ; 
Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now  him, 

of  tliose 
That  stood  the  nearest  —  now  address'd 

to  speech  — 
"Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such 
as  closed 


Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for  the 

year 
To  follow  :  a  shout  rose  again,  and  made 
The  long  line  of  the  approaching  rook« 

ery  swerve 
From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches 

of  the  deer 
From  slope  to  slope  thro'  distant  fems; 

and  rang 
Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset ;  0,  a  shout 
More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that  hails 
Premier  or  king  1    Why  should  not  these 

great  Sirs 
Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times  a 

year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  ?  So  thrice  they 

cried, 
I  likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream'd 

away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and 

sat  on. 
So  much  the  gathering  darkness  charm'd  : 

we  sat 
But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  revery, 
Perchanceupon  the  future  man  :  the  walls 
Blacken'dalioutus,  batswheel'd,  and  owls 

whoop'd, 
And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night. 
That  range  above  the  region  of  the  wind, 
Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight  broke 

them  up 
Thro'  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds, 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens. 

Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly. 
Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir 

Ralph 
From  those  rich  silks,  and  home  w&lli 

pleased  we  went. 


288 


IN   MEMORlAM. 


IN    MEMORlAM. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  i'aith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove  ; 

Thine  are  these  orLs  of  light  and  shade  ; 

Thou  madest  Life  in  man  and  brute  ; 

Thou  madest  Death  ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 
Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why  ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him  :  thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 
The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou  : 
Our  wills  are  ouis,  we  know  not  how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day  ; 
They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee. 

And  thou,  0  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  :  we  cannot  know  ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see  ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness  :  let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell : 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight  ; 
We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear  : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear  ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me  ; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began  ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  froia  man,  0  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed. 
Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  \\ild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


IN    MEMORlAM. 
A.  H.  H. 

OBIIT   MDCCCXXXIII. 


I  HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  M'ho  shall  so  forecast  the  years 
And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thio'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

L,et  LoveclaspGrief  lest  both  be  drown'd, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss  : 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost, 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead. 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  aboiit  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 
And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock  ', 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

0  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom. 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom  ? 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 
Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  theei 


0  SORROW,  cniel  fellowship, 

0  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
0  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath. 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  ? 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


289 


"The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "blindly  run  : 
A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky  ; 
From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 

And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  : 

"And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands  — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — ■ 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind. 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good  ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  ? 


To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away  ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark  ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark. 
And  with  my  heart  1  muse  and  say  : 

0  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 
That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire. 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  iiuiuire, 

"  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ? " 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost. 
Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears. 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost  ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darkeu'd  eyes  ; 
With  morningwakes  the  will,  andcrics, 

"Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 


I  SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain, 

'n  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  ^\Tap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


ONE^mtes,  that  "Other  friends  remain," 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race  "  — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace. 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain 


That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 
Too  common  !     Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

0  father,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done. 

Hath  still' d  the  life  that  beat  from  thee, 

0  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor,  —  while  tlij-  head  isbow'd. 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock -shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  1  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well  ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell. 

And     something    written,     something 
thought ; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home  ; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day, 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

0  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove. 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair  ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair. 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "this  will  please  him 
best," 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose  ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  color  burns  ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right  ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  Lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the  ford. 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

0  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood. 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 


Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street. 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 

So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 


290 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more,  — 
Behold  nie,  for  I  cannot  s^eep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ;  but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 


A.  HAPPY  lover  \vlio  has  come 
To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell, 

And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home  ; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall, 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emjjtied  of  delight  : 

So  find  1  every  pleasant  spot 

In  wliich  we  two  were  wont  to  meet. 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  "deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care ; 

So  seems  it  in  ray  deep  regret, 

0  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  pocsj' 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 

But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 

1  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb. 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom. 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthm's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Pliosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 


Si^here  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow; 

Slee}),  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run  ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


I  HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel ; 
I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night  | 
I  see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 

1  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 
And  travell'dmen  from  foreign  lands ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 

So  bring  him  :  we  have  idle  dreams  : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  tlius 
Our  home-bred  fancies  :  0  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod. 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  gi'apes  of  God  ; 

Tlian  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine  { 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine. 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells 


Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound. 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief. 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

Tlie  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 
And  onthesedews  that  drench  the  furzCj 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 

Calm  and  still  liglit  on  yon  great  plain 
That  swee2:>s  with  all  its  autumn  bowers 
And    crowded    farms    and    lessening 
towers. 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair  : 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


291 


"Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains." 


4ilm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 
And  wavesthat  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  nohle  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


Lo,  as  a  dove  when  nji  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tab;  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 

The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings  ; 

Like  her  I  go  ;  I  cannot  stay  ; 
I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 
A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  sajang ;  "Come-        hus,  my  friend  ? 
Is  this  the  end  o   •   ■.  my  care  ? " 
And  circle  moaui    ,  m  the  air : 

"  Is  this  the  end  ?    is  this  the  end  ? 


And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn. 

That  I  ha'/e  been  an  hour  away. 


Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these  ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  for  ever  new, 

A  void  where  heart  on  heart  re]iosed  j 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest  and 
closed, 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice. 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed, 
The  human -hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  year?, 
I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream  ; 


292 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem, 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears  ; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approaching  sails^, 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants' 
bales, 

And  not  the  burden  that  they  bring. 


If  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 
That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to- 
day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe. 
Should  see  tliy  {)assengers  in  rank 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank. 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know  ; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half-divine  ; 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine, 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home  ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pnin. 
And  how  my  life  had  dioop'd  of  late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain  ; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 


To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 
And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day  : 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl'd  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies  ; 

The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea  ; 
And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world  : 

And  but  for  fancies,  M-hich  aver 
That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  ban-en  branches  loud  ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 


That  rises  upward  always  higher, 
And  onward  drags  a  laboring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 


What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me? 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast, 

Or  sof-row  such  a  changeling  be  ? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm  ; 
But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 

In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 

That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 
Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven  ? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given. 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf. 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink  ? 
Andstunn'dme  from  my  powerto think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself ; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan  ? 


Thou  comest,  much  wept  for  :  such  a 
breeze 
Compell'd  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  sjiirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week  :  the  days  go  by  : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  mayst  roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night, 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 

Mid-ocean,  spare  thee,  sacred  bark  ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 


FN    MEMORIAM. 


293 


xviir. 
T  IS  well ;  t  is  something  ;  we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  he  made 
The  Violet  of  his  native  laud. 

T  is  little  ;  but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  (juiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  }iands,  and  bearthe  head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 
Would  breathing  thro'  his  lips  impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me  ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain. 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind. 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 


The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more  ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills  ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by. 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  giief  of  all, 
When  lill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls. 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 
That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead  ; 

WTio  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is. 
And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind  : 
"  It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this." 


My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these. 
That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win  ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within. 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze  ; 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breathy 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none. 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

"  How  good  !  how  kind  !  and  he  is  gone.' 

XXI. 

I  SING  to  him  that  rests  below, 
And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave. 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 
And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak  ; 
"This   fellow  would  make  weakness 
weak. 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men." 

Another  answers,  ' '  Let  him  be, 
He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  }iiping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy." 

A  tliird  is  wroth,  ' '  Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 
When  more  and  more  tlie  people  throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  ? 

"A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon. 
When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ? " 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing  : 
Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust : 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must. 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing : 

And  one  is  glad  ;  her  note  is  gay. 
For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged  ; 
And  one  is  sad  ;  her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 

XXII. 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 
Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well, 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell. 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow : 


294- 


IN  MEMOEIAM. 


And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way, 
And,  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent, 
From  April  on  to  April  went. 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May  : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  tifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear'd  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 
And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip. 

And  bore  thee  where  1  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste. 
And  think  that  somewhere  in  the  waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 


Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut. 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits. 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 

The  Shadow  cloak' d  from  head  to  foot, 

"Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame. 
And  looking  back  to  whence  1  cam.e, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads  ; 

And  crying.  How  changed  from  where 
it  ran 

Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb ; 

But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  : 

When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each. 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with 
Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech ; 

And  all  we  met  was  fp.ir  and  good. 
And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring. 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 

And  many  an  old  philosophy 
On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang. 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady. 


And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 

Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 


If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met. 
This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  great's 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief  ? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  its  being  far  ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 

XXV. 

I  KNOW  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared  ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear, 

Because  it  needed  help  of  Love  : 

Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 
When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in 

twain 
The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way  ; 
I  with  it ;  for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  moulder'd  tree. 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built  — 

0,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 
In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas. 
That  Shadow  waiting  with  the  keys, 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

xxvii. 

I  ENVY  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage. 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  ; 


IN  MEMORIAM, 


295 


I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes  ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 
Tlie  heart  that  never  plighted  troth. 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  liefall ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most  ; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

xxvm. 
The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 

TLe  moon  is  hid  ;  the  night  is  still ; 

The  Christmas  bells  from  lull  to  hill 
Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 
From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor. 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease. 
Peace  and  goodwill,  goodwill  and  peace, 

Peace  and  goodwill,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again  : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 
For  they  conti-oll'd  me  when  a  l)oy  ; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  wathjoy, 

The  merry  merry  bells  of  Yule. 


WrrH  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve  ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  .shower'd  largess  of  delight. 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly  boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and 
Wont, 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house  ; 


Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by, 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new  ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ?     They  too  will  die. 


With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth  ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gamboll'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused  :  the  winds  were  in  the  beech : 
We  lieard  them  sw-eep  the  winter  land  ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang  ; 
We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  :  impetuously  we  sang  : 

We  ceased  :  a  gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us  :  surely  rest  is  meet : 
"They  re.st,"  we  said,  "their  sleep  is 
sweet," 

And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a  higher  range  ; 

Once  more  we  sang :  "They  do  not  die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change  i 

"  Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gathered  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  mom, 
Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night  J 
0  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born. 


When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  return' d, 
Was  this  demanded  —  if  lie  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 

"Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four 
days  ?" 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 


296 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


From  every  house  tlie  neighbors  met, 
Thestreetswere fill'd  withjoyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  Ijrows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd  ; 

He  told  it  not ;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  E\-angelist. 


Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Noi  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits. 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  sujiersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Eoves  from  the  li\  :ng  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 
Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful 
prayers, 

'V\niose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 

"What  souls  possessthemselves  so  pure. 
Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

XXXIII. 

0  THOU  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reaeh'd  a  purer  air, 
Whose  faith  hath  centre  everjnvhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  x^^'ays, 
Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views  ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  : 
0,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine  ! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within. 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin. 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  type. 

XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this. 
That  life  .shall  live  for  evermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is  ; 


This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty  ;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  M'orks 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aun. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 
'T  were  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choos€ 
Of  tilings  all  mortal,  or  to  use 

A  little  patience  ere  I  die  ; 

'T  were  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace. 
Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws. 
To  drop  head-foronost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness  and  to  cease. 

XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  tliat  man  could  trust 
Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  house, 
' '  The  cheeks  drop  in  ;  the  body  bows  j 

Man  dies  :  nor  is  there  hope  in  dust "  : 

Might  I  not  say,  ' '  Yet  even  here, 
But  for  one  hour,  0  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive  "  ? 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea. 
The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  iEonian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be  ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 
"  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and 
more. 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

0  me,  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case  ?     If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 

]\Iere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 
Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 
Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush'd  the 
grape, 

And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods. 

XXXVI. 

Tiio'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing 'to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin  ; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail, 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tfcle 

Shall  ei.ter  in  at  lowly  doors. 


IN   MEMOKIAM. 


297 


A.nd  sotheWordhadbreath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought ; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave. 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 


Urania  speaks  with  darkeu'd  brow  : 
"Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art 

least  ; 
Tliis  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest, 

&.nd  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

"  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill. 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 

And  ray  Melpomene  replies, 
A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek  ; 
"  I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

"  For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 

And  render  human  love  his  dues  ; 

"  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead. 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 

' '  I  munnur'd,  as  I  came  along, 
Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd  ; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  master's  field, 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  sont:." 


With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives. 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring. 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 
Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free. 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 


XXXIX. 

Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones. 
And  answering  now  my  random  stroke 
With  fruitful  cloud  and  living  smoke, 

Dark  yew,  that  graspest  at  the  stones 

And  dippest  toward  the  dnamless  head- 
To  thee  too  comes  the  golden  hour 
When  flower  is  feeling  afi  er  flower  ; 

But  Sorrow  tixt  upon  the  dead. 

And  darkening  the  dark  graves  of  men. 
What  whisper'd  from  her  lying  lips  ? 
Thy  gloom  is  kindled  at  the  tips, 

And  passes  into  gloom  again. 


Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  lii'st  she  wears  her  orange-flower  ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessingshe  doth  rise 
To  take  lier  latest  leave  of  home. 
And  hopes  and  liglit  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes  ; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  mo^e, 
And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love  ; 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming  as  is  meet  and  fit 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each  ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  diff"erence  I  discern  ! 
How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bride. 

How  often  she  herself  return, 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 
And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast, 
Till  even  those  that  miss'd  her  most, 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  ; 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  liands. 
Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low  ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know. 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


298 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


XLI. 

Thy  spirit  ere  oiir  fatal  loss 

Did  evei  rise  from  liigli  to  higher  ; 
As  mounts  the  heavemvard  altar-fire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  tliro'  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turn'd  to  something  strange, 
And  1  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  changes  ;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 

Deep  folly  !  yet  that  this  could  he,  — 
That  I  could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  liglic, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee  : 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  howlings  from  forgotten  fields ; 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  inner  trouble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho'  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 

XLII. 

I  VEX  my  heart  with  fancies  dim  : 
He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 

That  made  me  dream  I  rank'd  with  him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 
And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
"When  one  that  loves  but  knows  not, 
reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows  ? 

XLIII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  sjnrit's  folded  bloom 
Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour. 
Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower  : 


So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man, 
So  that  still  gardeu  of  the  souls 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  workl  since  life  began; 

And  love  will  List  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time^ 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewakeu  wiili  the  dawning  soul. 

XLIV. 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead'; 
lor  here  the  man  is  moie  and  more^ 
But  he  forgets  the  days  before 

God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives   out   at   times   (he    knows    not 
whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint ; 

And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  sjirings) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 
0  turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt ; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 

In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 


The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 
AVhat  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast. 

Has  never  thought  that  "this  is  I " : 

But  as  lie  grows  he  gathers  nmch, 
And  learns  the  use  of  "I,"  and  "me," 
And  finds  "  I  am  not  what  I  see. 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch." 

So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 

From  M-hence  clear  memory  may  begia 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath; 
Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due, 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 


We  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 
The  path  we  came  bj^,  thorn  and  flower, 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour. 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


299 


So  be  it :  tliere  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall 
bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  i)ast ; 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd  ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase  ; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

0  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 
A  bounded  Held,  nor  stretching  far  ; 
Look  also.  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 


That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusingall 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast. 
Enjoying  each  the  other's  good  : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height. 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away. 
Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

"  Farewell  !    We  lose  ourselves  in  light." 

XLVIII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born. 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  pro- 
,  posed, 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  might  scorn  : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove  ; 
She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  remit, 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit. 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love  : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words. 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law. 
Ami  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords  : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 
But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dijj 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 


XLIX. 

From  art,  from  nature,  fron;  the  schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance. 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'd  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools  : 

The  lightest  w'ave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe. 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 
But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that 

make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears 
Ay  me  !  the  sorrow  deepens  down, 
Whose  nuiliied  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 
When  the  blood  creeps,  and  tlie  nerves 
prick 
And  tingle  ;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 
And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Israck'd  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust ; 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust. 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 
And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing, 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twiUght  of  eternal  day. 

LI. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  ajiplause  1  strove, 
I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame. 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love  ? 

I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 
Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  * 


300 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


There   must    be   -wisdom    with   great 
Death  ; 
The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro'. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 
Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  oui'S, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all 


I  CANNOT  love  thee  as  I  ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved  ; 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought 

' '  Yet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song, " 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 
' '  Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy  side. 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

"What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  ? 
What  record  ?  not  the  sinless  years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue  : 

*'So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl. 
That  life  is  dash'd  with  flecks  of  sin. 
Abide  :  thy  wealth  is  gather'd  in, 

When  Time  liath  sunder'd  shell   from 
pearl." 


How  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man,  among  his  boys. 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green  : 

And  dare  we  tc  this  fancy  give. 

That  had  the  wild  oat  not  been  sown, 
The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had  gi'own 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live  ? 

0,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good  :  define  it  well : 

For  fear  divine  Philosophy 

Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 


0  YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill. 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 


That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet  ^ 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'dj 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete;. 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 
Tliat  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivel'd  in  a  fruitless  fire. 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything  ; 
I  can  but  trust  tliat  good  shall  falj 
At  last  —  far  off—  at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring, 

Sc  runs  my  dream  :  but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 
That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

Sc  careless  of  the  single  life  ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope. 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  1  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


"  Sc  careful  of  the  type  ? "  but  no. 
From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are  gone; 

1  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

' '  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  tc  death  : 
The  .spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath 

I  know  nc  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


301 


Man,  hor  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  sjilendid  i>urpose  in  liis  eyes, 
Who  loH'd  the  psahii  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  tiusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law  — 
Tlio'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed  — 

Who  loved,  who  suffer'd  countless  ills. 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 

No  more  ?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.     Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime. 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

0  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail  ! 

0  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless  1 
What  liope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 

Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


Pface  ;  come  away  :  the  song  of  woe 

Is  after  all  an  earthly  song  : 

Peace  ;  come  away  :  we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly  :  let  us  go. 

Come  ;  let  us  go  :  your  cheeks  are  pale  ; 
But  half  iny  life  I  leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined  ; 

But  1  shall  pass  ;  my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies. 
One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

1  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er. 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 
And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 

"Adieu,  adieu"  for  evermore. 

LVIII. 

In  those  sad  words  1  took  farewell : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half-conscious  of  their  dying  clay. 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall 
cease. 


The  high  Muse  answer'd  :    "  Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a  fniitless  tear? 

Abide  a  little  longer  here. 
And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


0  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me. 
No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife. 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life; 

As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be ; 

0  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood. 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride. 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside. 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  jjassion  cannot  move. 
Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day ; 
But  I'll  have  leave  at  times  to  play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love ; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 
With  so  much  hope  for  years  to  come, 
That,  howsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  teU  what  name  were  thine. 


He  past ;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone: 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet. 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is  set 

On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn ; 
She  .sighs  amid  her  narrow  days. 
Moving  about  the  household  ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  bom. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go, 
And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by : 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  am  I! 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low?" 


If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime. 
Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time ; 

j  And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 
I      How  dimly  character'd  and  slight. 


302 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


How  dwarf  d  a  growth  of  coM  and  night, 
How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I  grow ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 
Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a  man  ; 
I  loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakespeare  love  thee  more. 


Tho'  if  an  63^6  that's  downward  cast 
Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  01 

fail, 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past ; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined, 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind  ; 

And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies. 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  Hying  smile. 


Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven, 

And  love  in  which  my  hound  has  part, 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these, 
As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  1, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 

So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep. 
As,  unto  vastei  motions  bound. 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 

LXIV. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been. 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man. 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 

And  on  a  simple  village  green ; 

AVho  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar. 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

Andgrapjiles  with  his  evil  star; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  chitcli  the  golden  keys, 
Tc  mould  a  miglity  state's  decrees. 

And  shape  the  whisper  .of  the  throne  ; 


And  moving  up  from  high  to  highei. 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire  ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 
When  all  his  active  powers  are  still. 
A  distant  dearuess  in  the  hill,. 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream^ 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate. 
While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands. 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands  ; 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ? " 


Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt ; 

1  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "  Love  's  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 

And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  ])hases  wrought 
There  ilutter.s  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing : 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 
A  jiart  of  mine  may  live  in  thee 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


YtiU  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased ; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost. 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 

And  like  tc  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 

Whose  feet  are  guided  thro'  the  land, 
Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free^ 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee, 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand  : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chaii 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky  ; 
His  inner  day  can  never  die. 

His  night  of  loss  is  alwaj's  there 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


303 


LXVII. 

When  on  my  bed  tlTe  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest. 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls  : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 

ind  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

rhe  mystic  glory  swims  away  ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies  ; 

And  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

And  then  1  know  tlie  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast. 
And  in  the  dark  church  like  a  ghost 

Tliy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

LXVIII. 

When  ift  the  down  I  sink  my  head. 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times  my 

breath  ; 
Sleep,    Death's   twin-brother,    knows 
not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  iis  dead  : 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn. 

When  all  ourpatli  was  fresh  with  dew, 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 

Eeveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this  ?     I  turn  about, 
1  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye. 
Which  makes  me  sad  I  know  not  why. 

Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt  : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 
I  wake,  and  1  discern  the  truth  ; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youtli 

That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 


I  dream'd  there  would  be  Spring  no  more, 
That  Nature's  aucient  power  was  lost  : 
The  streets  were  black  with,  smoke 
and  frost, 

They  chatter' d  trifles  at  the  door  : 

I  wander' d  from  the  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs  : 
1  took  the  thorns  to  bind  nn'  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown  : 

I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 
From  youth  and  babe  and  lioary  hairs  ; 


They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 
The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns  : 

Tliey  call'd  me  fool,  they  call'd  me  child  : 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 
The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright  5 

He  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand. 

That  seem'd  to  toucli  it  into  leaf  :   . 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief. 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 


I  CANNOT  see  the  features  right. 

When  on  the  gloom  1  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know  ;  the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  sluits  and  gapes, 
A  liand  tliat  points,  and  palled  sliapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfaies  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning 
doors, 

And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive  ; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive. 
And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores  ; 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  wiU 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 
And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 


Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  liast  forged  at  last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  Past 

In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  sucli  credit  with  the  soul  ? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of  wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole  ; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change, 
The   days   that    grow   to    something 
strange. 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 

Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach. 

The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge, 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


304 


IN  MEMORTAM. 


'  I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs." 


SiSEST  tliou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white. 

And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming  pane  ? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom. 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom. 

And  blurr'd  the  splendor  of  the  sun  ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  r[uick  tears  that  make  the  rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower  ; 

Who  mightst  have  heaved  a  windless  flame 
Upthe  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  play'd 


A  checker-work  of  beam  and  shade 
Along  the  hills,  yet  look'd  the  same. 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now ; 

Day,    mark'd  as  with   some  hideous 

crime, 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down  thro 
time, 
And  canceli'd  nature's  best :  but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  mayst  thy  burden'd  brows 
Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morning 

star, 
And  whirl  the  ungarner' d  sheaf  afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs. 

And  up  thy  vai;lt  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


305 


Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 
And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  giound. 

LXXIII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  doue,  such  things  to  be. 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee. 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true  ? 

The  fame  is  quench'd  that  I  foresaw, 
Tlie  liead  hath  miss'd  an  earthly  wreath : 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass  ;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds  : 
What  fame  is  left  for  hnman  deeds 

In  endless  age  ?     It  rests  with  God. 

0  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame. 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults. 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 

LXXIV. 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face. 
To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before. 

Comes  out  —  to  some  one  of  his  race  : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 
I  see  thee  what  thou  ait,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below. 

Thy  kindred  with  the  gi'eat  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Kor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


1  LEAVE  thy  prai-ses  unexpress'd 
In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd  ; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 
Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings. 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 

I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long. 
And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of  song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 


Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green, 
And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame  ; 
But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 

Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 


Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend,      ■* 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpeu'd  to  a  needle's  end  ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ;  lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come. 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew  ; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last. 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy 
bowers 

With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain  ; 

And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 
The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers  ? 

Lxxvir. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  hira,  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks  ; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 

A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find. 
And.  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 
Agi'ief,  then  changed  tosomethingelse, 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that  ?  My  darken'd  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same  ; 
To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

LXXVIII. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve : 


306 


IN   MEMORIAL 


Tlie  j-nle-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swejit, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slep^i 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place. 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace, 

Ind  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress  ? 
"No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 
0  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 

0  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 

0  last  regret,  regi-et  can  die  ! 

No —  mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same. 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 


"More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me  "  — 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart  I 
I  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 

To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind. 
As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint ; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 
Thro'  all  his  eddying  coves  ;  the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer'd  vows. 
One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learn'd. 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  turn'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine. 
But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor. 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


If  any  vague  desire  should  rise. 
That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  i'vom  his  side. 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes  ; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can. 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  tliought, 

But  stay'd  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 


I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain  ; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks  ,* 
He  bears  the  burden  of  the  weeks  ; 

But  turns  his  burden  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free  ; 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  from  the  grave 

Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 


Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 
"  My  love  shall  now  no  further  range  ; 
There  cannot  come  a  mellower  change. 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint  ? 
This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 

' '  More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more." 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 
"  My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain. 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 

LXXXII. 

I  WAGE  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  fomi  and  face  ; 
No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 

May  breed  with  him,  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on. 

From  state  to  state  the  .spirit  walks  ; 

And  these  are  but  the  shatter'd  stalks, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 

I  know  transplanted  human  worth 
Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart ; 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 


Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
0  sweet  new-year  delaying  long  ; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong  ; 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 


IN   MEMOEIAM. 


307 


Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew. 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fiic. 

0  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIV. 

When'  I  contemplate  all  aione 

The  life  that  had  been  thine  below. 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow- 
To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown  ; 

1  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  dilfusing  bliss 

In  glance  and  smile,  and  claspand  kiss. 
On  all  tbc  branches  of  thy  blood  ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine  ; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on. 
When  thou  shouldst  link  thy  life  with 
one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  "  Uncle"  on  my  knee  ; 
But  that  remoi'seless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange  tlower. 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them  mine. 
I  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 

Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I  see  myself  an  honor'd  giiest. 
Thy  {lartner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk. 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  gi'aceful  jest  ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  morn  as  fair  ; 
And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair  ; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe. 
Her  Ia\ash  mission  richly  wrought, 
Lfaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  otl'the  globe  ; 


What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee. 
As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate. 
And,  hevering  o'ei-  the  dolorous  strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrivp  ^t  last  the  blessed  goal. 
And  He  that  died  in  Hols   \.jnd 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand 

And  take  us  as  a  single  sou!. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant  ? 
Ah,  backward  i'ancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content. 

LXXXV. 

This  tiuth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all  — 

0  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief. 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead  ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow,  or  sustain'd  ; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love  ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  fivithful  answer  from  the  breast. 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest. 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept. 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slepf^ 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there  i 

And  led  hi-m  thro'  the  blissful  climes. 
And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh. 
All  knowledge  that  the  sous  of  Hesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remained,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little 

worth. 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  eartli, 
Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of 
him. 


308 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


0  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 
0  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  conld  better  know  than  I, 
How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine  ; 

A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe. 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life. 

But  in  the  present  bi'oke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I  met ; 
Nor  can  it. suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

1  woo  your  love  :  I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time  ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods. 
And  Spring   that  swells   the   narrow 

brooks. 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks. 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak  : 


"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 
A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

"  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach  ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speecll 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it  ?     Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ?  " 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall  ; 

'"T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this  ; 

I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss. 
And  that  serene  result  of  all." 

So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead  ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say  ; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play, 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

Thatthese  things  pass,  and  1  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  0  my  friend  ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
1,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  1  felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more, 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone. 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  1  bring. 
Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 


Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 
That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


309 


The  round  of  space,  and  rajit  below 
Tliio'  all  tlie  dewy-tasseU'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  Hood 

In  ripples,  i'an  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and 
Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far. 
To  wlu-re  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  sjiirits  whisper  "  Peace." 

LXXXVII. 

I  PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 
In  which  of  old  1  wore  the  gown  ; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the  town, 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls  ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make. 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon'd  on  the  panes  ; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ;  paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gi-ay  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  sanu-  ;  and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  Mhich  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  : 
I  liiiger'd  ;  all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  Iwys 

That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor  ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart. 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land  ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair. 
But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string  ; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring. 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there  ; 


From  point  to  point,  wich  power  and  gi'ace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly- wise  ; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
I  The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

{  LXXXVII  I. 

I  Wild  bird,  whose  waible,  liquid  sweet, 
I      ]{ings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  cpiicks, 
j      O  tell  me  where  the  senses  mi.v, 
!  O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet. 

Whence  radiate  :  fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
I      And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 
Thy  passion  clasjis  a  secret  joy  : 

And  I  —  my  harp  would  prelude  woe  — 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings  ; 
The  gloiy  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXIX. 

Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  witii  dusk  and  bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and 
height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down. 
My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town  : 

H(!  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw  ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports  ; 

They  ])leased  him,  fresh  from  brawling 
courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

0  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 
hnmantlecl  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat  : 

0  sound  to  ro  it  the  brood  of  cares. 
The  sweep  cf  scythe  in  morning  dew, 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears 


And  last  the  master-bowman,  he,  '  0  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 

Would  cleave  the  mark.   A  willing  ear  ;      About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
We  lent  him.   AVho,  but  hung  to  hear  ]      To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free  I  The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn  : 


310 


IN   MEMOEIAMi 


Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung. 
Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flung 

A  ballad  to  the  briglitening  moon  : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods. 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray. 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods  ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate. 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  ; 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town, 
He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "  ground  in  yonder  social  mill 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"And  merge  "  he  said  "  in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  talk'd  :  the  stream  beneath  us  ran. 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch'd  in  moss, 

Or  eool'd  within  the  glooming  wave  ; 
And  last,  returning  from  afar. 
Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall'u  into  her  father's  giave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 
We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 


He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind. 
Nor  ever  drank  tlie  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first  could 
fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise  : 

'Twaswell,  indeed,  whenwarm  with  wine. 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear. 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here. 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine  ; 

But  if  they  came  who  past  away, 
Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands  ; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands. 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 


Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 
Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me  : 
Whatever     change    the    years    have 

wrought, 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 


When'  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 
And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush  _ 
Or  underneath  the  )>arren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  ilarch ; 

Come,  wear  the  foiTn  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers; 
The  hope  of  unacconiplish'd  j^ears 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer'shourly-mellowing  change 
Jlay  breathe,  with  man}'  loses  sweet. 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat. 

That  rijiple  round  the  lonely  grange ; 

Come  :  not  in  watches  of  the  night, 
But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm. 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form. 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 


Ii  •  any  vision  should  reveal 
Thy  likeness,  1  might  count  it  vain 
As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain ; 

Yi;a,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  ■were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind, 
I  might  but  r,ay,  I  hear  a  wind 

Cf  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

^  ea,  tho'  it  sjiake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year ; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near. 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies, 
But  spiritual  presentiments, 
And  such  refiaction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

XCIII. 

I  SHALL  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


311 


That  stays  him  from  the  native  land, 
Where  lirst  he  walk'd  when  claspt   in 
clay? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 
But  he,  the  Si)irit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numh ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

0,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
0,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter ;  hear 
Tlie  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 


How  pure  fit  heart  and  sound  in  head. 
With  what  divine  affections  bold 
Should    be   the  man   whose    thought 
would  hold 

An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  slialt  thou,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast. 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 
The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air. 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din. 
And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn. 
For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry  ; 
And  genial  warmth  ;  and  o'er  the  sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  bum 
Unwavering :  not  a  cricket  chirr'd : 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard. 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn  : 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies. 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  Waded  eyes ; 


'  Wiiile  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peal'd 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd 

at  ease. 
The  white  kineglimmer'd,  and  the  trees 
Laid  their  tlark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 
Withdrew  themselves    from   me  and. 

night. 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 

A  hunger  seized  ni)'  heart ;  I  read 
Ofthat  glad  )var  which  once  had  been, 
In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their 
green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
Thesilent-speakingword.s,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth ;  and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 
On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back. 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line. 
The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the  past. 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flash' d  on  mine, 

.Vnd  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought. 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

/Eonian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps   of  Time — the  shocks  oi 

Chance  — 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my 
trance 
Was  cancell'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 

Vague  words  !  but  ah,  how-  hard  to  frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech. 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became  : 

Till  now  the  doul  tful  dusk  reveal'd 
The  kuoUs  once  more  where,  couch'd  at 

ease, 
The  white  kineglimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 

And  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 


312 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 
And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Rock'd   the   full  -  foliaged   elms,   and 

swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said 

"The  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away  ; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and 
death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 
Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue 

eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :  one  indeed  I  knew 
In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  : 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 
There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 

Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He    fought    his    doubts    and    gather'd 
strength, 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind. 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  thgm  :  thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own  ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night. 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the 
light. 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altlio'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

XCVII. 

My  love  has  talk'dwith  rocks  and  trees  ; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown'd  ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life  — 
I  look'd  on  these  and  thought  of  thee 


In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 
And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 

These  two  —  they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away  ; 
The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet- 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart. 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind. 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far. 

He  looks  so  cold  :  she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  witlier'd  violet  is  her  bliss  : 
She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is  ; 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows  ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house. 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move. 
She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise. 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand  :  I  love." 

XCVIII. 

You  leave  us  :  you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  1  sail'd  below. 
When  I  was  there  with  him  ;  and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  Avhere  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.     All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleamc 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 
Enwind  her  isles,  rmmark'd  of  me  ; 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna  ;  rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ;  friend  from  friend 
Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


313 


Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey         I  Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  Hings  |      That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill. 


Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings 
And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 

That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves  ;  nor  more  content, 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and  loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And   wheels  the   circled   dance,   and 
breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


RiSEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  Hower  of  men  ; 

Who  Iremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll'n  brook  that  bubbles  fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past. 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead  ; 

Who  murinurest  in  the  foliaged  caves 
A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care, 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  linger  on  the  leaves  ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth. 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

0,  wheresoever  those  may  be. 

Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls  ; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me. 


I  CLIMB  the  hill :  from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend  ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 
Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed. 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead. 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold  ; 


Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill, 
And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw  ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock  ; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
Toleftand  right  thro'  meadowy  curves. 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  tlock  ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye. 
And  each  rellects  a  kindlier  day  ; 
Aiul,  leaving  these,  to  pa.ss  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


Uxavatch'  D,  the  garden  bough  .shall  sway, 
The  tender  ])]ossom  flutter  down. 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away  ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 
Ray  round  with  llames  her  di.sk  of  .seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

Willi  summer  spice  the  humming  air  ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 
The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  j)olar  star  ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 
And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove  ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child  ; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades  ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


We  leave  the  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky  ; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry. 

Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 
As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

''ontend  for  loving  masterdom. 


314 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


One  whispers,  here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung. 

The  other  answers,  "'V'ea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  stray"  d  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 
And  each  ]:)refers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game. 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I  turn  to  go  :  my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms  ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 


On  that  last  night  before  we  went 
From  out  the  doors  where  I  was  bi'ed, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after-mom  content. 

Methought  I  dwelt  vdthin  a  hall, 
And  maidens  with  me  :  distant  hills 
Fiom  hidden  .summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 
They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.     In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang ; 

And  which,  tho'  veil'd,  was  known  to  me, 
The  shape  of  him  1  loved,  and  love 
For  ever  :  then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea  : 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go 
They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 
At  anchor  iii  the  flood  below  ; 

And  on  by  many  a  level  mead. 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the 

bank.s. 
We  glided  winding  under  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed  ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore. 
And  roU'd  the  floods  in  gi'ander  space, 
The  maidensgather'd  strength  and  grace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  ; 


And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,   wax'd  in   every 
limb  ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulsej  of  a  Titan's  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war. 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  gi'eat  race,  Mhich  is  to  be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star  ; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  gi'eat  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck. 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went. 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck  : 

Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail'd  their  lot  ;  I  did  them  wrong ; 
"We  served  thee  here,"  they  said,  "  so 
long, 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ?  ' 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  "  Enter  likewise  ye 

And  go  with  us  "  :  they  enter'd  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  ovit  of  .sheet  and  shroud. 
We  steer'd  her  toward  a  crimson  cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ  ^ 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 
A  single  church  below  the  hill 

Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below. 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 

Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 


To-NIGHT,  ungather'd,  let  us  leave 
This  laurel,  let  this  holly  stand  : 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land. 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas  eve. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


315 


Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 
And  silent  under  other  snows  : 
There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows, 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 
The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime  ; 
For   change  of  place,   like  growth  of 
time, 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 
By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 
Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm  ; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'  which  the  sjiirit  breathes  no  more  ? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast  ; 

Nor  harp  be  touch.'d,  norHutebe  blown  ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  suinnn'r  in  the  seed  ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  Hying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow  : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause. 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  mannei-s,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin. 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times  ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  mj- mourn  fid  rhymes, 

But  rinff  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 


Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 

King  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 

Ring  out  the  tiiousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand  ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


It  is  the  day  when  he  was  bom, 
A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 

Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.     Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  whichgridesand  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the  coast.     But  fetch  the 
wine. 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass  ; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 
To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat  ; 
Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 

Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by ; 

We  keep  the  day.     With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him,  whate'er  he  be, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 

CVIII. 

I  WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone. 

Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind  : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith. 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 


816 


m  MEMORIAM. 


"  Rin^  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky." 


What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 
But    mine    own    phantom    chanting 

hymns  ? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 

The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

1  '11  rather  take  what  fruit  may  he 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 

Whatever  \\isdom  sleep  with  thee. 


Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 
From  household  fountains  never  dry  ; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  ej'e, 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk  ; 

Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man  ; 


Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course  ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 
But  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom  ; 
iVnd  passion  ])ure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood  ; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarel}'  felt, 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England  ;  not  the  sclioolboy  heatj 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt  ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unasked,  in  thine. 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face  ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look'd  on  :  if  they  look'd  in  vnin, 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


317 


My  shame  is  greater  ivho  remain, 
Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years  : 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarm'd  of  pride. 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stem  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by. 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why  ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart. 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine  ; 
And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were 
thine. 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Nor  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill. 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire. 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all. 
To  hini  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 

By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown  ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale  : 

For  who  can  always  act  ?  but  he, 
To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be. 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind  ; 

Nor  ever  nan'owness  or  spite, 
Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  ej'e, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light ; 


And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  gi'and  old  name  of  goitlcuan, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan. 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  usie. 


HiOH  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 
That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufticiencies, 

Set  liglit  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wert  thou  ?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  for  ever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought, 
And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest  made. 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd. 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 

cxiir. 

'T  IS  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 
Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me. 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise  ; 

For  can  I  doubt,  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil  — 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have  been; 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 
A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course. 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go, 
With  agonies,  with  energies. 
With  overtlirowings,  and  vfith  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

cxiv. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ?     Who  shall 
rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?     May  she  mix 


318 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


Witli  men  and  prosper  !    Who  shall  fix 
Her  pillars  ?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire  : 
She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance. 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain  — 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons  ?  fiery -hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.     Let  her  know  her  place  ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain  ;  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 
But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
0,  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long. 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue. 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea. 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood  ;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too  ;  and  my  regret 


Becomes  an  April  violet, 
And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


cxvi. 

Ls  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  givesand  takaf 

The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all  :  the  songs,  tlie  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust. 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 

Not  all  regret :  the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone  ; 
And  that  dear  voice,  lonce  haveknown, 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  hap])y  commune  dead  ; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendshiji  fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

CXVII. 

0  DAYS  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  : 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
De.sire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundredfold  accrue. 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs, 
And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truths 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime  ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.     Thej'  say. 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms. 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms. 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man  ; 


"  There  rolls  the  deep  ''     See  page  319. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


319 


Who  tlirove  and  branch'd  fiom  clime  to 
clime. 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  liimself  in  higher  place 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more  ; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore. 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 
And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  sliape  and  use.     Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

CXIX. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more  ;  the  city  sleeps  ; 

I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street ; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds  ;  1  see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-with- 
drawn 

A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 
And  think  of  early  days  and  tliee, 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  li[)s  are  bland 
And  bright  the  friendship  of  tlxine  eye  ; 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh 

I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

cxx. 
I  TRUST  I  have  not  wasted  breath  : 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries  ;  not  in  vain, 
Like  Paul  with    b;,'asts,   I  fought  with 
Death  ; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay  : 
Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men. 

At  least  to  me  .'     I  would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Heieafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action  like  the  greater  ape. 

But  I  was  born  to  other  things. 

cxxi.  i 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun 
And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him, 


Tliou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 
And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done  : 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain, 
The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore  : 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  iu  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 
By  thee  the  world's  great  work  is  hearJ 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird  ; 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light : 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream. 
And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink  ; 
Thou  hear' St  the  village  hammer  clink, 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last. 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past. 

Thy  place  is  changed  ;  thou  art  the  same. 


0,  WAST  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then. 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  yearn'd  to  burst  the  folded  gloom, 

To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 
The  strong  imagination  roll 
A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul. 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law  ; 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now. 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  Vi^ave, 

Be  quicken'd  with  a  livelier  breath, 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death  i 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 
And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow. 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 

CXXIII. 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

0  earth,  what  changes  hast  thou  seen  ! 

There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath 
been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands : 


320 


IN   MEMORIAM, 


They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 
Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true ; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

cxxiv. 
That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless  ; 

Our  dearest  faith ;  ourghastliest  doubt ; 

He,  They,  One,  All  ;  within,  without ; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess  ; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun. 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye  ; 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  may  try. 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun  : 

If  e'er  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 
I  heard  a  voice  "  believe  no  more  " 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep  ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heai-t 

Stood  up  and  answer'd  "  I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear  : 
But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise  ; 
Then  was  1  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near  ; 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

AVhat  is,  and  no  man  understands  ; 
And  out  of  darkness  came  tlu'  liands 

That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 


Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung. 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give. 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue. 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth  ; 

She  did  but  look  through  dimmer  eyes  ; 

Or  Love  but  play'd  with  gracious  lies, 
Because  he  felt  so  fi.x'd  in  truth  : 

And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care. 
He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song  ; 
Andif  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong. 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there  ; 

Abiding  with  me  till  1  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 


And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 
A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 


Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  1  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  1  keej) 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place. 

And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 
In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVII. 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear  ; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 

A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  lags  : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  ci'ags  ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood  ; 
The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high. 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  .sky. 

And  the  great  JEon  sinks  in  blood. 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell  ; 
While  thou,  dear  spirit,  hapi)y  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tunmlt  from  afar, 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 

CXXVIII. 

The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
IJnpalsied  when  he  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 
Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade  ; 

Yet,  0  ye  mysteries  of  good. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


321 


Wild  Hours  that  fly  «-itli  Hope  aiul  Fear, 

If  all  your  office  had  to  do 

With  old  results  that  look  like  new  ; 
If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword. 
To  fool  the  crowd  with  gbrious  lies, 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries. 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk. 
To  make  old  bareness  pictures(iue 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower  ; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  youi-s.     1  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cboperant  to  an  end. 

cxxix. 
Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire. 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal  ; 

0  loved  the  most,  when  most  1  feel 
There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher  ; 

Known  and  unknown  ;  human,  diWne ; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  thatcanst  not  die. 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine  ; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be  : 
Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood  ; 
Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good. 

And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

cxxx. 
Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

1  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 
Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

A.nd  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ?     I  cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho'  niix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 
1  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice  •, 
1  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice; 

I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 


fXXXX. 

0  LIVING  will  that  slialt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  sutler  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  taro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  con(pier'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust. 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 
The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  How  from,  soul  in  soul. 


0  Tni:K  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay  j 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house  ;  nor  jn-oved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this  ; 

Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 
Some  thrice  three  years  :   they  went 

and  came. 
Remade  the  blood   and  changed   the 
frame. 
And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more  ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 
In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 
But  like  a  statue  solid-set, 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown. 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes. 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wifo  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bewer  : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes 

And  then  on  thee  ;  they  meet  thy  look 


322 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 
Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

0  when  her  life  was  yet  in  hud, 
He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 
For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy  ;  full  of  power ; 
As  gentle  ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent  ;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  Like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out :  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride  ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear  : 

For  I  tliat  danced  her  on  my  knee, 
That  watcli'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee  ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead  ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head. 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on, 
The  "wilt  thou"  answer'd,  and  again 
The  "  wilt  thou  "  ask'd,till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will"  has  made  ye  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  moi  n. 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn  ; 

The  names  are  sigu'd,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 
The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

0  happy  hour,and  happier  hours 
Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Sahites  them  —  maidens  of  the  place, 

rhat  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

0  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They    leave   the   porch,    they  i)ass   the 

grave 
That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 
For  tliem  the  -ight  of  life  increased, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast. 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 


Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun  ; 
My  drooping  memory  ■will  not  shiin 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays. 

And  hearts  are  warni'd,  and  faces  bloomj 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  grooro 

We  wish  them  store  of  hapi^y  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest. 
Perchance,  pei'cliance,  among  the  rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on. 
And  those  white-fa vor'd  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger  ;  it  is  late  ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  gi'ass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park. 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew. 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  he  said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 
Tlie   shade   of  passing   thought,  the 

wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  tlie  tliree-times-three. 

And  last  the  dance  ;  —  till  I  retire  : 
Dumbisthat  tower  which spakesoloud. 
And  high  in   heaven   the   streaming 
cloud. 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire  : 

And  rise,  0  moon,  from  yonder  down 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  sliining  vapor  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head. 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and 
spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills  ; 

And  touch  with  .shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 
And  breaking  let  tlie  spleudoi-  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 


MAUD. 


323 


By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
Aiid,  star  and  systi-in  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase. 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge  ;  under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is  Nature  likf.  an  open  book  ; 


No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  Wf  thought  and  loved  and  did. 
And  hoped,  and  sutfer'd,  is  ])ut  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  love% 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


MAUD, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


MAUD. 

I. 

I. 
I  HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the 

little  wood. 
Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with 

blood-red  heath, 
The  red-ribb'd  ledges  drip  with  a  silent 

horror  of  blood, 
And  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask'd  her, 

answers  "Death." 


For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a 

body  was  found, 
His  who  had  given  me  life  —  O  father  ! 

0  God  !  was  it  well  ?  — 
Mangled,  and  flatten'd,  and  crush'd,  and 

dinted  into  the  ground  : 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him 

when  he  fell. 


Did  he  fling  himself  down  1  who  knows  ? 

for  a  vast  speculation  had  fail'd. 
And  ever  he  mutter'd  and  madden' d,  and 

ever  wann'd  with  despair, 
ind  out  he  walk'd  when  the  wind  like 

a  broken  worldling  wail'd. 


And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin'd  wood 
lands  drove  thro'  the  air. 


I  remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my 

hair  were  stirr'd 
By  a   shuffled  step,   by  a  dead  weight 

trail'd,  by  a  whisper'd  fright. 
And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a 

shock  on  my  heart  as  I  heard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a  mother  divide 

the  shuddering  night. 


Villany  somewhere  !  whose  ?   One  says, 

we  are  villains  all. 
Not  he  :  his  honest  fame  should  at  least 

by  me  be  maintained  : 
But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad 

estate  and  the  Hall, 
Dropt  off"  goi-ged  from  a  scheme  that  had 

left  us  flaccid  and  drain'd. 


Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of 

Peace  ?  we  have  made  them  a  curse, 
Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all 

that  is  not  its  own  ; 
And  lust  of  gain,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain, 

is  it  better  or  worse 
Than  the  heart  of  tlie  citizen  hissing  iu 

war  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 


324 


MAUD. 


'  I  hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood." 


But  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the 
works  of  the  men  of  mind, 

When  who  but  a  fool  wouhl  liave  faith  in 
a  tradesman's  ware  or  liis  word  ? 

Is  it  peace  or  war  ?  Civil  war,  as  I  think, 
and  that  of  a  kind 

The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bear- 
ing the  sword. 


Sooner  or  later  I  too  may  passively  take 

the  print 
Of  the  golden  age  —  why  not  ?     I  have 

neither  hope  nor  trust  ; 
May  make  my  heart  as  a  millstone,  set 

my  face  as  a  flint, 


Cheat   and   be   cheated,  and   die  :  whc 
knows  ?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slur 

ring  the  days  gone  by, 
When  the  poor  are  hovell'd  and  hustlec 

together,  each  sex,  like  swine. 
When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when 

only  not  all  men  lie  ; 
Peace  in   her   vineyard — yes!  —  but  a 

company  forges  the  wine. 


And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in 
the  ruffian's  head, 


MAUD. 


325 


Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  ^J  the  yell 

of  the  trampled  wife, 
And  ehalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold 

to  the  poor  for  bread. 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the 

very  means  of  life, 

XI. 

And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm'd,  for  the 

villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of 

the  moonless  nights, 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a 

few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a  poison'd  poison  behind  his 

crimson  lights. 


When  a  Mammonite  mother  kills  her 
babe  for  a  burial  fee. 

And  Timonr- Mammon  grins  on  a  pile  of 
children's  bones. 

Is  it  peace  or  war  ?  better,  war !  loud 
war  by  land  and  by  sea, 

War  with  a  thousand  battles,  and  shak- 
ing a  hundred  thrones. 


For  I  trust  if  an  enemy's  fleet  came  yon- 
der round  by  the  hill, 

And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from 
the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam. 

That  the  smooth-fiiced  snubnosed  rogue 
would  leap  from  his  counter  and 
till. 

And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with 
his  cheating  yardwana,  home.  — 

XIV. 

What !  am  I  raging  alone  as  my  father 

raged  in  his  n:ood  ? 
Must  /  too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash 

myself  down  and  die 
Rather  tlaan  hold  by  the  law  that  I  made, 

nevermore  to  brood 
On  a   horror   of  shatter'd  limbs  and  a 

wretched  swindler's  lie  ? 


Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ?  there  was 
love  in  the  passionate  shriek, 

Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made 
false  haste  to  the  grave  — . 


Wrapt  in  a  cloak,  as  I  saw  hiii,  and 
thought  he  would  rise  nm\  speak 

And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God, 
as  he  used  to  rave. 


I  am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I  am 
sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 

Why  should  I  stay  ?  can  a  sweeter  chance 
,  ever  come  to  me  here  ? 

0,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well 
as  the  nerves  of  pain, 

Vv'^ere  it  not  wise  if  I  fled  from  the  place 
and  the  pit  and  the  fear : 


Workmen  up  at  the  Hal!  !  —  they  are 

coming  back  from  abroad  ; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the 

touch  of  a  millionnaire  : 
I  have  heard,  I  know  not  whence,  of  the 

singular  beauty  of  Maud  ; 
I  play'd  with  the  girl  when  a  child  ;   she 

promised  then  to  be  fair. 


Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and 
tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 

Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ring- 
ing joy  of  the  Hall, 

Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when 
my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 

Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the 
moon-faced  darling  of  all,  — 


What  is  she  now  ?  My  dreams  are  bad. 

She  may  bring  me  a  curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor  ; 

she  will  let  me  alone. 
Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether 

woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 
1  will  bury  myself  in  myself,  and  the 

Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 


II. 


Long  have  I  sigh'd   for  a  calm  :   God 

grant  I  may  find  it  at  last  ! 
It  will  never  b-^  broken  by  Maud,  she 

has  neither  savor  nor  salt. 
But  a  cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I  found 

when  her  carriage  past. 
Perfectly  beautiful :  let  it  be  granted  her; 

whore  is  the  fault  ? 


326 


MAUD. 


All  that  I  saw  (for  her  eyes  were  down- 
cast, not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splen- 
didly null, 

Dead  perfectiori,  no  more ;  nothing  more, 
if  it  had  not  been 

For  a  chance  of  travel,  a  paleness,  an 
hour's  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a  little 
too  ripe,  too  full. 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve 
in  a  sensitive  nose. 

From  which  I  escaped  heart-free,  with 
the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 


III. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you 

so  cruelly  meek. 
Breaking  a  slumber  in  which  all  spleenful 

folly  was  drown'd. 
Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash 

dead  on  the  cheek, 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on 

a  gloom  profound  ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for 

a  transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and 

ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon 

me  without  a  sound, 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike, 

half  the  night  long 
Growing  aTid  fading  and  growing,  till  1 

could  bear  it  no  more. 
But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own 

dark  garden  ground. 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad- 
flung  shipwrecking  roar. 
Now  to  the  scream  of  a  madden'd  beach 

dragg'd  down  by  the  wave, 
Walk'd  in  a  wintry  wind  by  a  ghastly 

glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low 

in  his  grave. 

IV. 


A  MILLION  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby- 
budded  lime 

In  the  little  grove  where  I  sit  —  ah, 
wherefore  cannot  I  he 

Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the 
bountiful  season  bland. 


When  the  far-off  sail  is  blo-wTi  by  the 
breeze  of  a  softer  clime. 

Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a 
crescent  of  sea. 

The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage 
ring  of  the  land  ? 


Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks 

how  quiet  and  small  ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o'er  like  a  city,   with 

gossip,  scandal,  and  spite  ; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as 

many  lies  as  a  Czar  ; 
And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a  red 

rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I  see 

her  pass  like  a  light ; 
But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be 

my  leading  star  ! 


When  have  I  bow'd  to  her  father,  the 

wrinkled  head  of  the  lace  ? 
I  met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but 

not  to  her  brother  I  bow'd  : 
I  bow'd  to  his  lady-sister,  as  she  rode  by 

on  the  moor ; 
But  the  fire  of  a  foolish  pride  flash'd 

over  her  beautiful  face. 
0  child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe 

it,  in  being  so  pioud  ; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and 

I  am  nameless  and  poor. 


I  keep  but  a  man  and  a  maid,  ever  ready 

to  slander  and  steal ; 
I  know  it,  and  smile  a  hard-set  smile, 

like  a  stoic,  or  like 
A  wiser  epicurean,   and  let  the   world 

have  its  way  : 
For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a  harm 

no  preacher  can  heal ; 
The  Mayfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the 

s]iarrow  spear'd  by  the  shrike. 
And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I  sit  is 

a  world  of  plunder  and  prey. 


We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pride,  and 
Beauty  fair  in  her  flower  ; 

Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by 
an  unseen  hand  at  a  game 


MAUD. 


327 


That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and 

others  ever  succeed  ? 
Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other 

here  tor  an  hour  ; 
We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  cliuckle,  and 

grin  at  a  brother's  sliame ; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a 

little  breed. 


A  monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and 

Master  of  P^arth, 
For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his 

river  billowing  ran, 
And  he  felt  himself  in  liis  force  to  be 

Nature's  crowning  race. 
As  nine   montlis  go  to  tlie  shaping  an 

infant  ri])e  for  his  birth. 
So  many  a  million  of  ages  have  gone  to 

the  making  of  man  : 
He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ?  is  he 

not  too  base  ? 


The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of 

glory,  and  vain. 
An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a  spirit 

bounded  and  poor  ; 
The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl'd 

into  folly  and  vice. 
I  would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep 

a  temperate  brain  ; 
For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a  man 

could  learn  it,  were  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of 

old  in  a  garden  of  spice. 

VIII. 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an 

Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 
Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how 

God  will  bring  them  about  ? 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many, 

the  world  is  wide. 
ShaU   1  weep  if  a  Poland  fall  ?  shall  I 

shriek  if  a  Hungary  fail  ? 
Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with 

roil  or  with  knout  ? 
I  have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that 

made  it  will  guide. 

IX. 

Be  mine  a  ]ihiloso  iher's  life  in  the  quiet 
woodland  ways. 

Where  if  I  cannot  be  gay  let  a  passion- 
less peace  be  my  lot, 


Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied 

in  the  hubbub  of  lies  ; 
From  the  long-neck'd  geese  of  the  world 

that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise 
Because   their   natures   arc    little,   and, 

whether  he  heed  il  uv  not. 
Where  each  man  walks  with  his  head  ic 

a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 


And  most  of  all  would  I  flee  fron  the 
cruel  madnv>ss  of  love, 

The  honey  of  poison-flowers  and  all  the 
measureless  ill. 

Ah  Maud,  you  niilkwliite  fawn,  you  are 
all  unmeet  for  a  wife. 

Your  mother  is  mute  in  her  grave  as  her 
image  in  marble  above  ; 

Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wan- 
der about  at  your  will  ; 

You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain 
in  the  lilies  of  life. 


A  VOICE  by  the  cedar  tree. 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall  : 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 

A  i)assionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A  martial  song  like  a  trumpet's  call ! 

Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life. 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 

Singing  of  me<i  that  in  battle  array, 

Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 

To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face, 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny 
sky. 

And  feet  like  suniy  gems  on  an  English 
gi'een, 

Maud  in  the  ligh ;  of  her  youth  and  he. 
grace. 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that 
cannot  die. 

Till  I  well  could  weep  for  a  time  so  sor- 
did and  mean. 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base. 

III. 
Silence,  beautiful  voice 
Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind 


828 


MAUD. 


With  a  joy  in  which  1  cannot  rejoice, 

A  gloiy  1  shall  not  find. 

Still !  I  will  hear  you  no  more, 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a 

choice 
But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall 

before 
Her   feet   on   the   meadow   grass,    and 

adore. 
Not   her,    who   is   neither   courtly   nor 

kind, 
Not  her,  not  her,  but  a  voice. 


VI. 

1. 

Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale, 

No  sun,  but  a  M-aunish  glare 

In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are 

bow'd 
Caught  and  cuff 'd  by  the  gale  : 
1  had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 


"Whom  tut  Maud  should  I  meet 
Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn'd 
On  the  blossom'd  gable-ends 
At  the  head  of  the  village  street, 
Whom  but  Maud  should  1  meet  ? 
And  she  touch'd  my  hand  with  a  smile 

so  sweet 
She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a  courtesy  not  return'd. 


And  thus  a  delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 
Thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 
Kept  itself  waim  in   the  heart  ot    my 

dreams, 
fieady  to  burst  in  a  color'd  flame  ; 
Till  at  last  when  the  morning  came 
In  a  cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen -gray  delight. 


What  if  with  her  sunny  hair. 
And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold. 
She  meant  to  Wf  ave  me  a  snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 
Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 
To  entangle  me  when  we  met, 


To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a  silken  net 

And  fawn  at  a  victor's  feet. 


Ah,  what  shall  I  be  at  fifty 

Should  Nature  keep  me  alive, 

If  I  find  the  world  so  bitter 

When  1  am  but  twenty-five  ? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat, 

I  f  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem'd. 

And  her  smile  M-ere  all  that  1  dieam'd 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 


What  if  the'  her  eye  seem'd  full 
Of  a  kind  intent  to  me. 
What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he, 
Thatjewell'd  mass  of  millinery. 
That  oil'd  and  curl'd  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence. 
Her  brother,  from  whom  1  keeji  aloof, 
Who  wants  the  finer  ])olitic  sense 
To  mask,  tho'  but  in  his  own  behoof. 
With  a  glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn  — 
What  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A  face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign'd, 
And  a  moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes, 
That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  biazen  lies, 
A  wretched  vote  may  be  gain'd. 


For  a  i-aven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side, 
Keep  watch  and  %\ard,  keep  watch  and 

ward. 
Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 
Yea  too,  myself  from  myself  I  guard. 
For  often  a  man's  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a  fool. 


Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood. 
For  am  1  not,  am  1  not,  here  alone 
So  many  a  summer  since  she  died. 
My  mother,  who  M'as  so  gentle  and  good  i 
Living  alone  in  an  empty  house. 
Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood. 
Where  I  hear  the  dead  at  midday  moan, 
And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 

mouse, 
And  my  own  sad  name  in  comers  cried^ 
When  the   shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is 

thrown 


MAUD. 


329 


About  its  echoing  ohambei-s  wide, 
Till  a  niorbiil  liate  and  hoiior  have  grown 
Of  a  world  in  which  I  have  liaidly  mixt, 
And  a  morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a  heart  half-turn'd  to  stone. 


O  heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and  caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand  ? 
For  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I  fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of  love, 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and 

trip 
When  I  saw  the  treasured  splendor,  her 

hand. 
Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove, 
And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip  ? 


I  have  play'd  with  her  when  a  child ; 

She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I  may  be  beguiled 

By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a  cheat. 

If  Maud  were  all  tliat  she  seem'd, 

And  her  smile  had  all  that  1  dream'd, 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 

But  a  smile  could  make  it  sweet. 


VII. 


Did  I  hear  it  half  in  a  doze 
Long  since,  I  know  not  where  ? 

Did  I  dream  it  an  hour  ago, 
When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair  ? 


Men  were  drinking  together. 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me  ; 

"  Well,  if  it  ])rove  a  girl,  the  boy 
WiU  have  plenty  :  so  let  it  be.' 


Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a  boy's  delight. 

Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  nisht  ? 


Strange,  that  I  hear  two  men, 
Somewhere,  talking  of  me  ; 

"  Well,  if  it  prove  a  girl,  my  boy 
Will  have  plenty  :  so  let  it  be. 


VIII. 

She  came  to  the  village  church. 
And  sat  by  a  jiiilar  alone  ; 
An  angfl  watcliing  an  urn 
Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone  ; 
And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes, 
And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely  blush'd 
To  tind  they  were  met  by  my  own  ; 
And  suddenly,   sweetly,  my  heart  beat 

stronger 
And  thicker,  until  I  heard  no  longer 
Tiie  snowy-banded,  dilettante, 
Delicate-liandetl  priest  intone  ; 
And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused  and 

sigh'd 
"  No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride." 


IX. 

1  WAS  walking  a  mile. 
More  than  a  mile  from  the  shore, 
The  sun  look'd  out  witli  a  smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  tlie  moor, 
And  liding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land; 
Ka[>idly  riding  far  away, 
Slie  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  fla-sh'd  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  liill  1  saw  them  ride, 
In  a  moment  they  were  gone  : 
Like  a  sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night, 
Tlien  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 


Sick,  am  I  sick  of  a  jealous  dread? 
Was  not  one  of  tlie  two  at  her  side 
This  new  -  made  lord,    whose    splendor 

plucks 
The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager's  head  ? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 
Gone  to  a  blacker  pit,  for  wliom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laying  his  trams  in  a poison'd  gloom 
W^rought,    till  he  crept  from  a  gutted 

mine 
blaster  of  half  a  servile  shire. 
And  left  his  ooal  all  turn'd  into  gold 
To  a  grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 
Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire. 


330 


MAUD. 


"She  came  to  the  village  church, 
And  sat  by  a  pillar  alone." 


Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore, 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower, 
And  soften  as  if  to  a  girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a  work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 
New  as  his  title,  built  last  year, 
There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a  cockney  ear. 


What,  has  he  found  my  jewf  1  out  ? 
For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  I  am  sure  was  he  : 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I  think  for  a 
bride. 


Blithe  would  her  brother's  acceptance  be 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt, 
To  a  lord,  a  captain,  a  padded  shape, 
A  bought  commission,  a  waxen  face, 
A  rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape  — 
Bought  ?  what  is  it  he  cannot  buy  ? 
And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  base, 
A  wounded  thing  with  a  rancorous  cry, 
At   war   with   myself   and   a   wretched 

race. 
Sick,  sick  to  the   leart  of  life,  am  I. 


Last  week  came  one  to  the  county  town, 
To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down, 
And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings, 


Maud. 


331 


rho'  the  state  has  done  it  and  tlirice  as 

well  : 
This  broad  -  brimm'd   hawker   of   holy 

things, 
Whose  ear  is  cranim'd  with  his  cotton, 

and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his  pence. 
This  huckster  put  down  war !  can  he  tell 
Whether  war  be  a  cause  or  a  consequence  ? 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth 

Hell ! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down  !  cut  off  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear  ; 
Down  too,  down  at  your  own  fireside, 
With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear, 
For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 


I  wish  I  could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy  ? 

I  might  i>ersuade  myself  then 

She  would  not  do  heiself  tliis  great  wronj. 

To  take  a  wanton  dissolute  boy 

For  a  man  and  leader  of  men. 


Ah  God,  foramauwith  heart,  head,  hand, 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by. 
One  still  strong  man  in  a  blatant  land, 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat, — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 


And  ah  for  a  man  to  arise  in  me. 

That  the  man  I  am  may  cease  to  be  I 


XL 


0  LET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet  j 
Then  let  come  what  come  may. 
What  matter  if  1  go  mad, 

1  shall  have  had  my  day. 


Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 


Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 

Tliat  there  is  one  to  love  me ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may 
To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 


XIL 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  antl  calling. 


Where  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood  ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

MjTiads  blow  together. 


Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Kinging  thro'  the  valleys, 

Maud  is  here,  here,  hei'e 
In  among  the  lilies. 


I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen. 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 


I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favor  ! 
0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 

If  lowliness  could  save  her. 


I  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy. 

For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her. 

Where  is  iLaud,  Maud,  llaud, 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

VIII. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door. 

And  httle  King  Charley  snarling, 
Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 

You  are  not  her  darliu;^. 


332 


MAUD. 


XIII. 


Scorn'd,  to  be  scorn'd  by  one  that  I  scorn, 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 
That  a  calamity  hard  to  be  borne  ? 
Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 
Fool  that  1  am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride  ! 
I  past  liim,  1  was  crossing  his  lands  ; 
He  stood  on  the  path  a  little  aside  ; 
His  face,  as  1  grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 
Has  a  broad-blown  comeliness,  red  and 

white. 
And  six  feet  two,  as  I  think,  he  stands  ; 
But  his  essences  turn'd  the  live  air  sick, 
A.nd  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn'd  itself  on  his  breast  and  his  hands. 


Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 
I  long'd  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship  ; 
But  while  I  past  he  was  humming 

air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a  riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a  glossy  boot, 
And  curving  a  contumelious  liji, 
Uorgonized  me  liom  head  to  foot 
With  a  stony  British  stare. 


Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father's  chair  ? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place  : 
Shall  1  believe  him  ashamed  to  be  seen  ? 
For  only  once,  in  the  village  street, 
Last  year,  1  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face, 
A  gray  old  wolf  and  a  lean. 
Scarcely,  now,  would  I  call  him  a  cheat  ; 
For  then,  jierhaps,  as  a  child  of  deceit, 
She  might  by  a  true  descent  be  untrue  ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet  : 
Tho'  I  ftmcy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side  ; 
Her  mother  has  been  a  thing  complete. 
However  she  came  to  be  so  allied. 
And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 
Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin  : 
Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  hea])'d  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scajiegoat  of  the  race. 
All,  all  upon  the  brother. 


Peace,  angrj'  spirit,  and  let  him  be 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  j 


XIV. 


Maud  has  a  garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a  lawn  ; 
There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower. 
And  thither  I  climb'd  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden-gate  ; 
A  lion  ramps  at  the  top, 
He  is  claspt  by  a  passion-flower. 


Maud's  own  little  oak-room 

(Which  Maud,  like  a  precious  stone 

Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom, 

Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 

She  sits  by  her  music  and  books. 

And  her  brother  lingers  late 

AVith  a  roystering  company)loGks 

Upon  Maud's  own  garden-gate  : 

And  I  thought  as  1  stood,  if  a  hand,  as 

white 
As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my  Delight 
Had  a  sudden    desire,   like    a  glorious 

ghost,  to  glide, 
Like  a   beam  of  the   seventh    Heaven, 

down  to  my  side. 
There  were  but  a  step  to  be  made. 


The  fancy  ilatter'd  my  mind, 

And  again  seem'd  overbold  ; 

Now  I  thought  that  she  cared  for  mO) 

Now  I  thought  she  was  kind 

Only  because  she  was  cold. 


I  heard  no  sound  where  I  stood 
But  the  livulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood  °, 
Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as  if 

swell'd 
Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn  ; 
But  I  look'd,  and  round,  all  round  the 

house  I  beheld 
The  death-white  curtain  drawn  ; 
Felt  a  horror  over  me  creep, 
Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 
Knew  that  the  death- white  curtain  meant 

but  sleep. 
Yet  I  shudder'd  and  thought  like  a  foo] 

of  the  sleep  of  death. 


MAUD. 


333 


XV. 

So  dark  a  mind  witliin  me  dwells, 
And  1  make  myself  such  evil  cheer, 

That  if  /  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 
Then  some  one  else  may  have  mueli 
to  fear  ; 

But  if  /  be  dear  to  some  one  else, 

Then  1  should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 

Shall  1  not  take  care  of  all  that  1  think, 

Yea  ev'n  of  wretched  meat  and  diiuk. 

If  1  be  dear, 

If  1  be  dear  to  some  one  else  ? 


XVI. 


This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight  ; 
And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to 

seek, 
And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and  drown 
Hisheartin  the  gross  mud-honey  of  town, 
He  may  stay  for  a  year  who  has  gone  for 

a  week  : 
But  this  is  the  day  when  1  must  speak. 
And  1  see  my  Oread  coming  down, 
0  this  is  the  day  ! 

0  beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  1  dare  to  look  her  way  ; 
Think  I  may  hold  dominion  sweet. 
Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lordof  her  breast. 
And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender 

dread. 
From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her  feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as 

the  crest 
Of  a  peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head. 
And  she  knows  it  not  :  0,  if  she  knew  it. 
To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1  know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
ily  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps   from   madness,    perhaps    i'ronr 

crime. 
Perhaps  from  a  selfish  grave. 


What,   if  she  be    fasten'd   to  this   fool 

lord. 
Dare  1  bid  her  abide  by  her  word  ? 
Should  I  love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  given  her  word  to  a  thing  so  low  ? 
Shall  I  love  her  as  well  if  she 
Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for  me  ? 
1  trust  that  it  is  not  so 


Catch  not  my  breath,  O  clamorous  heart. 
Let  not  my  tongue  bj  a  thrall  to  my  eye, 
For  1  must  tell  her  before  we  part, 
1  must  tell  her,  or  die. 


XVIL 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields, 
t;o  not,  hapjiy  day. 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Kosy  is  the  West, 

Kosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks. 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 

Falters  from  her  lips. 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 

O'er  the  blowing  ships. 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest. 
Pass  the  haj)py  news, 

lilush  it  thro'  the  West ; 
Till  the  red  man  dance 

By  his  red  cedar  tree, 
And  the  red  man's  babe 

Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 

Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro'  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 
Roses  are  her  cheeks. 

And  a  rose  her  mouth. 


XVIII. 


1  HAVE  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only 

friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish'd-for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised 

good. 


None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurels'  patter- 
ing talk 

Seoiu'd  her  light  foot  along  the  garden 
walk, 


S34 


MAUD. 


And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes 

once  more  ; 
But  even  then  I  heard  her  close  the  door, 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she 

is  gone. 

III. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none. 
Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  de- 
ceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy 

delicious  East, 
Sighing  for  Lebanon, 
Dark  cedar,  tho'  thy  limbs  have  here  in- 
creased. 
Upon  a  pastoral  slope  as  fair, 
And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey'd  rain  and  delicate  air. 
And  haunted  by  the  starry  liead 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my 

fate. 
And  made  my  life  a  perfumed  altar-flame ; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have 

spread 
With  such  delight  as  theirsof  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the   snow-limb'd  Eve  from 
whom  she  came. 


Here  will  I  lie,  while  these  long  branches 

sway. 
And  you  fair  stars  that  crewn  a  happy 

day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play. 
Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn. 
As  when  it  seem'd  far  better  to  be  born 
To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden'd  hand. 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  un- 
derstand 
A  sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies. 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes, 
Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and 

brand 
His  nothingness  into  man. 


But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 
Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a 

pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky. 
And  do  accept  my  madness,  and  would 

die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  sim- 
ple girl. 


Would  die  ;   for   sullen-seeming  Death 

may  give 
More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet  't  is  sweet 

to  live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass  ; 
It  seems  that  1  am  happy,  that  to  me 
A  livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 
A  purer  bajiphire  melts  into  the  sea. 


Not  die  ;  but  live  a  life  of  truest  breathy 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 
wrongs. 

0,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drink- 
ing-songs. 

Spice  his  fair  bamj^uet  with  the  dust  of 
death  ? 

Make  answei-,  Maud  my  bliss, 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  lover's 
kiss. 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this .' 

"The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven 
here 

With  dear  Love's  tie,  makes  Love  him- 
self more  dear." 


Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay  ? 
And  hark  the  clock  within,  the  silver  knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal 

white, 
And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play  ; 
But  now  by  this  my  love  has  closed  her 

sight 
And  given   false  death  her  hand,    and 

stol'n  away 
To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies 

dwell 
Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 
May  nothing   there   her   maiden   grace 

affright  ! 
Dear  heart,  1  feel  with  thee  the  drowsy 

spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight, 
My  own  heart's  heart  and  ownest  own 

farewell  ; 
It  is  but  for  a  little  space  I  go  : 
And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 
Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night  t 
Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the 

glow 
Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so 

bright  ? 


MAUD. 


335 


I  have  climb'd  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 
Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things 

below, 
Beat  with   my  heart   more  blest  than 

heart  can  tell. 
Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 
That  seems  to  draw  —  but  it  shall  not 

be  so  : 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


XIX. 


Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 
Breaking  up  my  dream  of  delight. 


My  dream  ?  do  I  dream  of  bliss  ? 
I  have  walk'd  awake  with  Truth. 
0  when  did  a  morning  shine 
So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 
Darken'd  watching  a  motlier  decline 
And  that  dead  man  at  her  heartandmine  : 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I  ? 
Yet  so  did  I  let  my  freshness  die. 


I  tnist  that  I  did  not  talk 

To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 

(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 

I  have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless  things) 

But  1  trust  that  I  did  not  talk. 

Not  touch  on  her  father's  sin  : 

I  am  sure  I  did  but  speak 

Of  my  mother's  faded  cheek 

When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin. 

That  I  felt  she  was  slowly  dying 

Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass'd  with  debt : 

For  how  often  I  caught  her  with  eyes 

all  wet, 
Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sighing 
A  world  of  trouble  mthin  ! 


And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 

To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 

As  one  scarce  less  forlorn. 

Dying  abroad  and  it  «eems  apart 

From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her 

heart, 
And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 
The  household  Fury  sprinkled  with  blood 
By  which  our  houses  are  torn  : 
How  strange  was  what  she  said, 


When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed  — 
That  Maud's  dark  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other, 
Betrothed  us  over  their  wine, 
On  the  day  when  Maud  was  bom  ; 
Seal'd  her  mine  from  her  firstsweet  breath. 
Mine,  mine  by  a  right,  from  birth  till 

death, 
Mine,  mine  —  our  fathers  have  sworn. 


But  the  true  blood  siiilt  had  in  it  a  heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a  bond, 
That,    if  left  uncancell'd,   had  been  so 

sweet  : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a  something 

beyond, 
A  desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the 

child. 
As  it  were  a  duty  done  to  the  tomb, 
To  be  ''riends  for  her  sake,  tobe  reconciled; 
And  1  was  cursing  them  and  my  doom. 
And  letting  a  dangerous  thought  run  wild 
While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant  gloorr 
Of  foreign  churches  —  1  see  her  there. 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a  prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled  ! 


But  then  what  a  flint  is  he  ! 
Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 
1  find  whenever  she  touch'd  on  mfe 
This  brother  had  laugh'd  her  down, 
And  at  last,  when  each  came  home, 
He  had  darken'd  into  a  frown. 
Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 
To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before  ; 
And  this  was  what  had  redden'd  her  cheek 
When  I  bow'd  to  her  on  the  moor. 


Yet  Maud,  altho'  not  blind 

To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I  see  she  cannot  but  love  him. 

And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind. 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him. 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 

Sick  once,  with  a  fear  of  worse. 

That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and  play. 

Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and  day, 

And  tended  her  like  a  nurse. 

VIII. 

Kind  ?  but  the  deathbed  desire 
Spurn'd  by  this  heir  of  the  liar  — 


336 


MAUD. 


Rough  but  kind  ?  yet  I  know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this, 
That  he  plots  against  me  still. 
Kind  to  Maud  ?  that  were  not  amiss. 
Well,  rough  but  kind  ;  why  let  it  be  so  : 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  ? 


For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true, 

As  long  as  my  life  endures 

I  feel  1  shall  owe  you  a  debt, 

That  I  never  can  hope  to  pay  ; 

And  if  ever  I  should  forget 

That  1  owe  this  debt  to  you 

And  for  your  sweet  sake  to  yours  ; 

0  then,  what  then  shall  I  say  ?  — 

If  ever  I  should  forget. 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 

Then  ever  I  have  been  yet ! 


So  now  I  have  sworn  to  bury 

All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

I  feel  .so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight. 

That  I  should  grow  light-headed,  I  fear, 

Fantastically  merry  ; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a  blight 

On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night. 


XX. 


Sttjanoe,  that  I  felt  so  gay. 
Strange  that  /  tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy  ; 
The  Sultan,  as  we  name  him,  — 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly  : 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a  little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due  ? 
Dr  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners, 
i'Tay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  ? 
Now  I  know  her  but  in  two. 
Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather. 
Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer  ; 
For  nothing  can  bo  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either 


But  to-morrow,  if  we  live, 
CKir  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A  grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near  ; 
And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels. 
And  the  bird  of  prey  will  hover, 
And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  hei 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 


A  grand  political  dinner 

To  the  men  of  many  acres, 

A  gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A  dinner  and  then  a  dance 

For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers- 

And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 

At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 


For  I  am  not  invited. 
But,  with  the  Sultan's  pardon, 
I  am  all  as  well  delighted. 
For  I  know  her  own  rose-garden, 
And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over  ; 
And  then,  0  then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a  minute,  but  for  a  minute, 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover, 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling. 
Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 

XXI. 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground. 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 

This  garden-rose  that  I  found, 

Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me. 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 

Here  at  the  head  of  a  tinkling  fall. 

And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea  ; 

0  Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 

(If  I  read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a  blushing  mission  to  me, 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  "  Ah,  be 

Among  the  roses  to-night." 


XXII. 

I. 
Come  into  the  garden,  Ma\id, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown. 


MAUD. 


d'6\ 


•  Ccine  Into  the  fpirden,  Maud." 


Come  into  the  garden,  Mand, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And    the   woodbine   spices   are    wafted 
abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she 
loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 


All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night   has  the  casement  jessamine 
stin-'d 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 


I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone^ 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 


I  said  to  the  rose,  "The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

0  young  lord' lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 

But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the 
rose, 
"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 


And  the  soul  of  the  rose  M'ent  into  my 
blood, 
As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 


338 


MAUD. 


And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood. 
For  I  heard  your  rivniet  fall 

From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

VII. 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left 
so  sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 


The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  yom  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake. 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 


Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls. 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  .sunning  over  with 
curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 


There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear  ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is 
near"  ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,    "  She  is 
late  "  ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear  "  ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 


She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  ti  ead, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


xxni. 


"The   fault   was  mine,  the   fault  waa 

mine"  — 
Why  am  I  sitting  here  so  stunn'dandstill, 
Plucking  tne  harmless  wild-flower  on  th? 

hill?  — 
It  is  this  guilty  hand  !  — 
And  there  rises  ever  a  passionate  cry 
From  underneath  in  thedarkeningland  — 
What  is  it,  that  has  been  done  ? 
0  dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and  sky, 
The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  rising 

sun, 
The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Hate  ; 
For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken  a 

word. 
When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the 

gate, 
He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord  ; 
Heap'd  on  her  terms  of  disgrace. 
And  while  she  wept,  and  I  strove  tobecool, 
He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie. 
Till  1  with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke, 
Andhestruck  me,  madman,  overtheface. 
Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool, 
Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by  : 
Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke  ; 
Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeeniablt 

woe  ; 
For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood, 
And  a  million  horrible  bellowing  echoes 

broke 
From  the  red-ribb'd  hollow  behind  the 

wood. 
And    thunder'd   up    into    Heaven   the 

Christless  code. 
That  must  have  life  for  a  blow. 
Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seem'd  to  grow. 
Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a  fading  eye  ? 
"The  fault   was  mine,"  he  whisper' d, 

"fly!" 

Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 
The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I  know  ; 
And  there  rang  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 

cry, 
A  cry  for  a  brother's  blood  : 
It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears,  till 

I  die,  till  I  die. 


Is  it  gone  ?  my  pulses  beat  — 

What  was  it  ?  a  Ipng  trick  of  the  brain' 

Yet  1  thought  I  saw  her  stand, 

A  shadow  there  at  my  feet, 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 


MAUD. 


339 


It  is  gone ;  and  the  heavens  fall  iu  a 
gentle  rain, 

When  they  should  burst  and  drown  with 
deluging  storms 

The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger  and 
lust, 

The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to 
forgive  : 

Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold 
Thee  just. 

Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of  ven- 
omous worms. 

That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust ; 

We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 


XXIV. 

I. 

See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot. 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  ! 


What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 


The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water-world  ? 


Slight,  to  be  crush' d  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand. 
Small,  but  a  M'ork  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock. 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand  ! 


V. 
Breton,  not  Briton  ;  here 
Like  a  shipwreck'd  man  on  a  coast 
Of  ancient  fable  and  iear  — 
Plagued  with  a  Hitting  to  and  fro, 
A  disease,  a  hard  mechanic  ghos^ 
That  never  came  from  on  high 
Nor  ever  arose  from  below, 
But  only  moves  with  tiie  moving  eye, 
Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main- 
Why  should  it  look  like  Maud  ? 
Am  1  to  l)e  overawed 
By  what  I  cannot  but  know 
Is  a  juggle  born  of  the  brain  ? 


Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a  nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 

Looking,  thinking  of  all  I  have  lost ; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear  ; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 


For  years,  a  measureless  ill, 
For  years,  for  ever,  to  part  — 
But  she,  she  would  love  me  still ; 
And  as  long,  0  God,  as  she 
Have  a  grain  of  love  for  me, 
So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt, 
Shall  I  nurse  in  my  dark  heart, 
However  weary,  a  sjmrk  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 


Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 

With  a  passion  so  intense 

One  would  think  that  it  well 

Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye,  — 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought 

Suddenly  strike  on  a  sharper  sense 

For  a  shell,  or  a  flower,  little  things 

Which  else  would  have  been  past  by  ! 

And  now  I  remembei-,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I  noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

( For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and  thought 

It  is  his  mother's  hair. 


Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  ? 

Whether  1  need  have  fled  ? 

Am  I  guilty  of  blood  ? 

However  this  may  be. 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things  good, 

While  I  am  over  the  sea  ! 


340 


MAUD. 


Let  ine  and  my  passionate  love  go  by, 
But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and 

high, 
Whatever  happen  to  me  ! 
Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by  ; 
But  come  to  her  waking,  lind  her  asleep, 
Powers  of  the  height,  Powers  of  the  deejj, 
And  comfort  her  tho'  I  die. 


XXV. 

Courage,  poor  lieart  of  stone  ! 

I  will  not  ask  thee  why 

Thou  canst  not  understand 

That  thou  art  left  for  ever  alone  : 

Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 

Or  if  1  ask  thee  why. 

Care  not  thou  to  reply  : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 

When  thou  shalt  more  than  die. 


XXVI. 


0  THAT 't  were  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Kound  me  once  again  ! 


When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth. 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 


A  shadow  flits  before  me. 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  ; 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell 

us 
What  and  where  they  be. 


It  leads  me  forth  at  evening. 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  wliite  robe  before  me. 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 


Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs; 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies  ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow. 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 


'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet. 
And  a  dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls  ; 
'T  is  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet ; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow. 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 


Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old. 
My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 
My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 
But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate 

cry, 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 
And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd  ; 
For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 
And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled  ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold^ 
Witliout  knowledge,  without  pity. 
By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

VIII. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again. 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain^ 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 
'T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 


Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
Tlie  great  city  sounding  wide  ; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 


MAUD. 


341 


Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

1  steal,  a  wasted  frame, 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 

Thro'  all  that  crowd  coufused  and  loud. 

The  shadow  still  the  same  ; 

And  on  my  heav}'  eyelids 

My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 


Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glinmiering  thro'  the  laurels 

At  tlie  ([uii't  evenfall. 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 


Would  the  happy  spirit  descend. 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest. 
Should  1  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Oi  to  say  "  forgive  the  wrong," 
Or  to  ask  her,  "take  me,  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest "  ? 


But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats. 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be  ; 

And  1  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me : 

Always  1  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep. 

There  to  weej),  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 


XXVII. 


Dead,  long  dead. 

Long  dead  ! 

And  my  heart  is  a  handful  of  dust, 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head. 

And  ni}'  bones  are  shaken  with  pain, 

For  into  a  shallow  grave  they  are  thrust. 

Only  a  yard  beneath  the  street. 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat. 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat. 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain. 

With  never  an  end  to  the  stream   of 

passing  feet; 
Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  buryiug, 


Clamor  and   rumble,  and  ringing   and 

clatter. 
And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad, 
For  1  thouglit  the  dead  had  peace,  but 

it  is  not  so  ; 
To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that 

not  sad  ? 
But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro. 
Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go  ; 
And  then  to  hear  a  dead  man  chattel 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 


Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began, 

They  cannot  even  bury  a  man  ; 

And  tho'  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days 

that  are  gone, 
Not  a  bell  was  rung,  not  a  prayer  was  read ; 
It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the 

world  of  the  dead  ; 
There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not 

one; 
A  touch  of  their  office  might  have  sufficed, 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their 

church. 
As  the  churches  have  kill'd  their  Christ. 


See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing. 
No  limit  to  his  distress  ; 
And  another,  a  lord  of  all  things,  praying 
To  his  own  gi'eat  self,  as  1  guess  ; 
Andanother,  r. statesman  there,  betraying 
His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press  ; 
And  yonder  a  vile  physician,  blabbing 
The  case  of  his  patient  —  all  for  what  ? 
To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an  empty 

head. 
And  wheedle  a  world  that  loves  him  not, 
For  it  is  but  a  world  of  the  dead. 


Nothing  but  idiot  gabble  ! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 

And  then  not  understood, 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold  ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public 


But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 
For  I  never  whisper'd  a  private  affair 
Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 
No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone. 
But  I  heard  it  shouted  at  once  from  the 

top  of  the  house  ; 
Everything  came  to  be  known  : 
Who  told  hijn  we  were  there  'i 


S42 


Maud. 


Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  forhecamenot  back 
From   the    wilderness,    full   of   wolves, 

where  he  used  to  lie  •, 
He  has  gather'd  the  bones  for  his  o'er- 

grown  whelp  to  crack  ; 
Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl, 

and  die. 


Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 
And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat ; 
I  know  not   whether  he    came   in   the 

Hanover  ship. 
But  I  know  that  he  lies  and  listens  mute 
In  an  ancient   mansion's  crannies   and 

holes  : 
Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it, 
Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes, 

poor  souls ! 
It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 


Tell  him  now  :  she  is  standing  here  at 

my  head  ; 
Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind  ; 
He  may  take  her  now  ;    for  she  never 

speaks  her  mind. 
But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 
She  is  not  of  us,  as  I  divine  ; 
She  comes  from  another  stiller  world  of 

the  dead. 
Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 


But  I  know  where  a  garden  grows. 
Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside. 
All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 
That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is 

good. 
To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and  flutes : 
It  is  only  flowers,  tliey  had  no  fruits. 
And  I  almost  fear  they  are  not  roses,  but 

blood  ; 
For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of  pride. 
He  linkt  a  dead  man  there  to  a  spectral 

bride  ; 
For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a  Sultan  of 

brutes, 
Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side  ? 


But  what  will  the  old  man  say  ? 

He  laid  a  cruel  snare  in  a  jiit 

To  catch  a  friend  of  mine  one  stormy  day  ; 


Yet  now  I  nould  even  weep  to  think  of  it : 
For  what  will  the  old  man  say 
When  he  comes  to  the  second  coi-pae  in 
the  pit  ? 


Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public  foe. 
Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 
That  were  a  public  merit,  far. 
Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin  ; 
But  the  red  life  spilt  for  a  private  blow  — 
I  swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 


0  me,  why  have  the}''  not  buried  me  deep 

enough  ? 
Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a  grave  so 

rough. 
Me,  that  was  never  a  quiet  sleeper  ? 
Maybe  still  1  am  but  half-dead  ; 
Then  1  cannot  be  wholly  dumb  ; 

1  will  cry  to  the  stejis  above  my  liead. 
And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart 

will  come 
To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 


XXVIII. 


My  life  lias  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing 
Thro'  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror 

and  fear, 
That  I  come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a 

little  thing  : 
My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a  time 

of  year 
When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the 

dewy  downs. 
And   the  shining  dafl"odil  dies,  and  the 

Charioteer 
And  starry  Gemini  hang  like   glorious 

crowns 
Over  Orion's  grave  low  down  in  the  westj, 
That  like  a  silent  lightning  under  the  stars 
She  seeni'd  to  divide  in  a  dream  from  a 

band  of  the  blest, 
And  spoke  of  a  hope  for  the  world  in  the 

coming  wars  — 
'• '  And  in  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble 

have  i-est. 
Knowing  I  tarry  for  thee,"  and  pointed 

to  Mars 
As  he  glow'd  like  a  ruddy  shield  on  the 

Lion's  breast. 


THE  BROOK. 


343 


And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  yielded  a 
dear  delight 

To  have  look'd,  tho'  but  in  a  dream,  up- 
on eyes  so  fair, 

Tliat  had  been  in  a  weaiy  world  my  one 
thing  bright  ; 

And  it  was  but  a  dream,  yet  it  lighten'd 
my  despair 

When  I  thought  that  a  war  would  arise 
in  defence  of  the  right, 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend 
or  cease, 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  an- 
cient height, 

Nor  Britain's  one  sole  God  be  the  mil- 
lionnaire  : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all,  and 
Peace 

Pipeonherpastoralhillockalanguidnote, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd 
increase. 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  nist  on  a  slothful 
shore, 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  can- 
non's throat 

Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind 
no  more. 


And  as   months  ran  on    and   rumor  of 

battle  grew, 
"It   is  time,  it   is   time,  0  passionate 

heart,"  said  I 
(For  I  cleaved  to  a  cause  that  I  felt  to  be 

pure  and  true), 
"It   is   time,  0   passionate   heart   and 

morbid  eye, 
That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should 

He." 
And  I  stood  on  a  giant  deck  and  mix'd 

my  breath 
With  a  loyal  people  shouting  a  battle  cry. 
Till  I  saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 
Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas 

of  death. 


Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I  wake  to  the  higher 

aims 
Of  a  land  that  has  lost  for  a  little  her 

lust  of  gold. 
And   love   of  a   peace  that  was  full  of 

wrongs  and  shames, 
Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be 

told; 


And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  bat- 
tle unroU'd  ! 

Tho'  many  a  light  shall  darken,  and  many 
shall  weep 

For  those  that  are  crush'd  in  the  clash 
of  jarring  claims. 

Yet  God's  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak'd  on 
a  giant  liar  ; 

And  many  a  darkness  into  the  light  shal) 
leap, 

And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splen- 
did names, 

And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun, 

And  the  heart  of  a  people  beat  with  one 
desire  ; 

For  the  peace,  that  I  deem'd  no  peace,  is 
over  and  done. 

And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and 
the  Baltic  deep. 

And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  for- 
tress, flames 

The  blood-red  blossom  of  warwith  a  heart 
of  fire. 


Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll 

down  like  a  wind. 
We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a  cause, 

we  are  noble  still, 
And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems, 

to  the  better  mind  ; 
It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good,  than  to 

rail  at  the  ill  ; 
I  have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I  am 

one  with  my  kind, 
I  embrace  the  purpose  of  God  and  the 

doom  assign' d. 


THE   BROOK; 

AN    IDYL. 

"  Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted  ;  I  to 

the  East 
And  he  for  Italy  —  too  late  —  too  late  : 
One  whom  the  strong  .sons  of  the  world 

despise  ; 
For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and 

share. 
And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for 

cent ; 
Nor  coiild  he   understand    how   money 

breeds. 
Thought  it  a  dead  thing  ;   yet  himself 

could  make 
T^he  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing  that  is. 


344 


THE   BKOOK. 


0  had  he  lived  !     In   our   schoolbooks 

we  say, 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above  the 

crowd, 
They  flourish'd  then  or  then  ;  but  life  in 

him 
Could   scarce  be   said  to  flourish,  only 

touch'd 
On  such  a  time  as  goes  before  the  leaf. 
When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a  mist  of 

gi-een, 
And  nothing  perfect  :  yet  the  brook  he 

loved, 
For   whicli,    in    branding    summers   of 

Bengal, 
Orev'n  the  sweet  half- English Neilgherry 

air 

1  panted,  seems,  as  I  re-listen  to  it. 
Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the  boy, 
To  me  that  loved  him  ;  for  '  0  brook,' 

he  says, 
'0  babbling  brook,'  says   Edmund   in 

his  rhyme, 
'  Whence  come  you  ? '   and   the  brook, 

why  not  ?  replies. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hem, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges. 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  fann  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

I'or  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

"  Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite 

worn  out. 
Travelling  to  Naples.     There  is  Darnley 

bridge, 
Ithasmoreivy ;  there  the  river  ;  and  there 
Stands  Philip's  farm   where  brook  and 

river  meet. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways. 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow. 


And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  gDj 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

"  But  Philin  chatter'd  more  than  brook 

or  bird  ; 
Old  Philip ;  all  about  the  fields  you  caught 
His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the  dry 
High-elbow'd  gi'igs  that  leap  in  summer 

grass. 

1  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing. 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel. 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

"0  darling  Katie  Willows,   his  one 

child  ! 
A  maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most  meek ; 
A  daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not  coarse ; 
Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a  hazel  wand ; 
Her  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the 

shell 
Divides    threefold    to    show    the    fruit 

within. 

' '  Sweet  Katie,  once  I  did  her  a  good  turn, 
Her    and   her  far-off    cousin    and    be- 
trothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart 

with  her. 
For  here  1  came,  twenty  years  back  — 

the  week 
Before  I  parted  with  poor  Edmund  ;  crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins 

then, 
Still  makes  a  hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond   it,   where  the  waters  marry  — 

crost, 
Whistling  a  random  bar  of  Bonny  Doon, 
And  push'd  at  Philip's  garden-gate.   The 
gate, 


THE   BROOK. 


345 


"  I  come  from  haunts.of  coot  and  hern, 
I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern." 


Half-parted  from  a  weak  and  scolding 
hinge, 

Stuck ;  and  he  clamor'd  from  a  case- 
ment, '  nin ' 

To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below, 

*  Run,  Katie  ! '  Katie  never  ran  :  she 
moved 

To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine 
bowers, 

A  little  flutter'd,  with  her  eyelids  down. 

Fresh  api)le-blossom,  blushing  for  a  boon. 

"What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment  than 
sense 

Had  Katie  ;  not  illiterate  ;  nor  of  those 

Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  Active 
tears, 

And  nursed  by  mealy-mouth'd  philan- 
thropies. 

Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the 
Deed. 


"She  told  me.     She  and  James  had 

quarreli'd.     Why  ? 
What  cause  of  quarrel  ?   None,  she  said, 

no  cause  ; 
James  had  no  cause :   but  when  I  pie.st 

the  caiise, 
I  leanit  that  James  had  flickering  jeal- 
ousies 
Which  anger'd  her.  Who  anger'd  James  ? 

I  said. 
But  Katie  snatch'd  her  eyes  at  once  from 

mine. 
And  sketching  with  her  slender  pointed 

foot 
Some  figure  like  a  wizard's  pentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaim'd,    ih   flushing   silence,   till   I 

ask'd 
I  f  James  were  coming.  'Coming  every  day, 
She  answer'd.  '  ever  longing  to  explain, 
But  evemiore  her  father  came  across 


346 


THE  BROOK 


With  sorna  long-winded  tale,  and  broke 

him  short; 
And  James  departed  vext  with  him  and 

her.' 
How  could  I  help  her  ?  '  Would  I  —  was 

it  wrong  ? ' 
( Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary  grace 
Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere  she 

spoke ) 
'0  would  I  take  her  father  for  one  hour, 
For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to 

me  !' 
And  even  while  she  spoke,  I  saw  where 

James 
Made   toward  us,  like  a  wader  in  the 

surf, 
Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in  meadow- 
sweet. 

"  OKatie,  what  I  suffer'dforyoursake  ! 

For  in  I  went,  and  call'd  old  Philip  out 

To  show  the  farm  :  full  willingly  he  rose  : 

He  led  me  thro'  the  short  sweet-smelling 
lanes 

Of  his  wheat  suburb,  babblingas  he  went. 

He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his 
machines ; 

He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his 
hogs,  his  dogs  ; 

He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  guinea- 
hens  ; 

His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their  roofs 

Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own  de- 
serts : 

Then  from  the  plaintive  mother's  teat  he 
took 

Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies,  nam- 
ing each. 

And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for  whom 
they  were  : 

Then  crost  the  common  into  Darnley 
chase 

To  show  Sir  Arthur's  deer.  In  copse  and 
fern 

Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 

Then,  seated  on  a  serpent-rooted  beech, 

He  jjointed  out  a  pasturing  colt,  and  said  : 

'  That  was  the  four-year-old  I  sold  the 
Squire.' 

And  there  he  told  a  long  long-winded  tale 

Of  how  the  Squire  had  seen  the  colt  at 
grass, 

And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter 
wish'd. 

And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 

To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price 
he  ask'd, 


And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was  mad, 
But  he  stood  firm  ;  and  so  the  mattei 

hung  ; 
He  gave  them  line  :  and  five  days  after 

that 
He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer'd  some- 
thing more. 
But  he  stood  firm  ;  and  so  the  matter 

hung  ; 
He  knew  the  man  ;  the  colt  would  fetch 

its  price  ; 
He  gave  them  line :   and  how  by  chance 

at  last 
(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot. 
The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 
He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm, 
And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew  him 

in, 
And  there  he  mellow'd  all  his  heart  with 

ale, 
Until  they  closed  a  bargain,  hand  in  hand. 

'  Then,  while  I  breathed  in  sight  of 
haven,  he, 
Poor  fellow,   could  he  help  it  i  recom- 
menced. 
And  ran  thro'  all  the  cokish  chronicle, 
Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 
Reform,  White  Eose,  Bellerophon,  the 

Jilt, 
Arbaces,  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest, 
Till,  not  to  die  a  listener,  I  arose. 
And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ;  and  so 
AVe  turn'd  our  foreheads  from  the  falling 

sun. 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice  as 

long 
As  when  they  follow'd  us  from  Philip's, 

door. 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet  con- 
tent 
Re-risen  in  Katie's  eyes,  and  all  things 
well. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses ; 


THE   BROOK. 


347 


'  I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows." 


I  linger  by  rny  shingly  bars  ; 
I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  How 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Ves,  men  may  come  and  go  ;  and  these 

are  gone. 
All  gone.    My  dearest  brother,  Edmund, 

sleeps, 
Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic 

spire. 
But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 
Of  Brunelleschi ;  sleeps  in  peace  :  and  he, 
Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of 

words 
Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb  : 
I  scraped  the  lichen  from  it :  Katie  walks 
By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 


Far  off,   and  holds  her  head  to  other 

stars. 
And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.     All 

are  gone." 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  .seated  on  a  stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his  mind 
Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o'er  the 

brook 
A  ton.sured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn, 
Mused,  and  was  mute.     On  a  sudden  a 

low  breath 
Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the  hedge 
The   fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony 

rings  ; 
And  he  look'd  up.    There  stood  a  maiden 

near, 
Waiting  to  pass.    In  much  amazehe  stared 
On  eyes  a  bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the 

shell 


348 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH 


Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within  ; 
Then,  wondering,  ask'd  her  "Are  you 

from  the  farm  ? " 
"Yes"   answer'd   she.      "Pray   stay   a 

little  :  pardou  me  ; 
What    do   they   call   you?"    "Katie." 

"  That  were  strange. 
What  surname  ? "   "  Willows."    "  No  !  " 

"That  is  my  name." 
"  Indeed  ! "  and  here  he  look'd  so  self- 

perplext. 
That  Katie  laugh'd,  and  laughing  blush'd, 

till  he 
Laugh'd  also,  but  as  one  before  he  wakes. 
Who  feels  a  glimmering  strangeness  in 

his  dream. 
Then  looking  at  lier  ;  "Too  happy,  fresh 

and  fair. 
Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world's  best 

bloom. 
To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your 

name 
About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  ago." 

"Have  you  not  heard?"  said  Katie, 

"  we  came  back. 
We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  before. 
Am  1  so  like  her  ?  .so  they  said  on  board. 
Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English  days. 
My  mother,   as  it  seems  you  did,   the 

days 
That  most  .she  loves  to  talk  of,  come  with 

me. 
My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest-field  : 
But   she  —  you   will  be    welcome  —  0, 

come  in  ! " 


THE    LETTERS. 


Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A  black  yew  gloom'd  the  stagnant  air, 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow  ; 
''  Cold  altar.  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 

Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 


I  turn'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 
That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human 
heart. 

And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 
We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 


Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry ; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved  i 
1  saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 

She  wore  the  colors  I  approved. 


She  took  the  little  ivory  chest. 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turn'd  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  li}is  comprest 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could 
please  ; 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 


She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said  ; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar  ; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 
"No  more  of  love  ;  your  sex  is  known: 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 


"Thro'  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell 

(And  women's  slander  is  the  worst), 
And  you,  whom  once  I  loved  so  well. 

Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst." 
I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I  shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms — 
Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 

We  rush'd  into  each  other's  arms. 


We  parted  :  sweetly  gleam' d  the  stars, 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue, 
Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars. 

As  homeward  by  the  church  1  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile. 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow'd  swells ; 
"Dark  porch,"  I  said,  "and  silent  aisle. 

There  comes  a  sound  of  marriage  bells." 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 


Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of    the  mourning  of  a 
mighty  nation, 


OF  THE   DUKE   OF   WELLINGTON. 


349 


Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we 

deplore  ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 
Let  the  sound  of  tliose  he  wrought  for. 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fouglit  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 


Lead  out  the  pageant:  sad  and  slow, 

As  fits  an  universal  woe. 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  tliesorrowingcrowdaboutitgrow. 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow  ; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 


Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 
Remembering  all  hisgi'eatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
0  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute  ; 
Mourn    for   the   man   of  long-enduring 

blood, 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,   reso- 
lute. 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence. 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  conmion-sense. 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sulilime. 
0  good  gi'ay  head  which  all  men  knew, 
0  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 
0  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
0  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew  ! 
Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World -victor's  victor  will  be 
seen  no  more. 


All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toU'd. 


Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river, 

There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 

Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toU'd  : 

And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds. 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toU'd  : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoU'd ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 

roll'd 
Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 
And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his 

loss  ; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Ucilowing  victory,  bcdlowing  doom: 
When  lie  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  cap- 
tain taught 
The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame. 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
0  civic  Tuuse,  to  sucli  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 
To  such  a  name. 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame. 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 


Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor'd 
guest. 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  sol- 
dier and  with  priest, 

With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking 
on  mj'  rest  ? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  fa- 
mous man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began- 

Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea  ; 

His  foes  were  thine  ;  he  kept  us  free  ; 

0  give  biiu  welcome,  this  is  he 

W(jvthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites. 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 


350 


ODE   ON   THE   DEATH 


For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 
He  tliat  gain'd  a  hiuidi'ed  fights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaj'e 
Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  ; 
And  underneath  another  sun, 
Warring  on  a  later  day, 
Round  aifrighted  Lisbon  drew 
The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor'd  rampart-lines, 
Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay. 
Whence  he  issued  forth  anew. 
And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 
Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 
Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 
Till  o'er  the  hills  lier  eagles  tleu- 
Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 
Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men. 
Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms. 
And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 
Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 
Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel'd  on  Europe-shadowing 

wings. 
And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 
Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 
On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler 

down ; 
A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 
Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves 

away  ; 
Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  ilash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ra)', 
And   down  we  swept  and  charged  and 

overthrew. 
So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there. 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world's-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 
And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 
0  .savioirr  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all. 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by 

thine  ! 
And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 


At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all   men  else  their  nobler  dreams 

forget. 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawlesr 

Powers ; 
Thank    Him   who    isled   us   here,    and 

roughly  set 
His  Briton  in  blown  seas  and  storming 

showers. 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  jiay  the 

debt 
Of  boundlesslove  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept 

it  ours, 
And  keep  it  ours,  0  God,  from  brute  con- 
trol ; 
0  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  ej-e, 

the  soul 
Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 

sown 
Ijetwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 

springs 
Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings  ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust. 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march 

of  mind. 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 
But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward 

wall  ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council -hall 
For  ever  ;  and  whatever  tempests  lower 
For  ever  silent ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 

spoke ; 
Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Norpalter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power  ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  .streams  of  rumoi 

flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and 

low  ; 
Whose  life  was  w'ork,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  : 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  j 


OF  THE   DUKE   OF   WELLINGTON. 


351 


W^hose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  re- 
buke 

All  great  ielt'-seekers  trampling  on  the 
right  : 

Truth-teller  was  our  England's  Alired 
named  ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 

Whatever  record  leap  to  light 

He  never  shall  be  shamed. 


Lo,  the  header  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  tiie  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn . 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  ouce  or  twice  in  our  rough  island- 
story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
Heshallfuul  the  sfcubbornthistlebursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  tar  light  has 

won 
His  path  ujiward,  and  pr  vail'd, 
Shall  find    the  toppling  crags  of  Duty 

scaled 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 
Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done, 
But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure : 
Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory  : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved 

from  shame 
For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame. 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


Peace,  his  trium}>h  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see  ■ 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung  ; 

0  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 

brain 
Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 
More  than  is  of  man's  degree 
Must  be  witli  us,  watching  here 
At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 
Whom  we  see  not  we  revere, 
We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 
And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a  wise  humility 
As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 
We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 
Setting  toward  eternity. 
Uplifted  higli  in  heart  and  liope  are  we, 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
Tliere  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 
And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 
For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
.Make  and  bieak,  and  wck  their  will  ; 
Tlio'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 
And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 
What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 
On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 

trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  peo- 
ple's ears  : 
The   dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are 

sobs  and  tears  : 
The  black  earth  yawns  :  the  mortal  diS" 

appears  ; 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  ; 
He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great.  — 
Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  State, 
And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 
Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 
Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 
Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down. 
And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 
God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him, 
1352. 


352 


THE  DAISY. 


THE   DAISY. 

WRITTEN    AT    EDINBURGH. 

Olove,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine 
In  lands  of  pahn  and  southern  pine  ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Eoman  strength  Turhia  shovv'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road  ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  tlie  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters. 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue  ; 

"Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now    watching    high    en    mountain 
cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast ; 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast. 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cajie  in  ocean  ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho'  white  and  cold. 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  jirincely  people's  awful  princes, 
rhe  grave,  severe  Oenovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  liours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours  ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 


In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet. 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter' d. 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  lleggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting. 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  0  the  chanting  quires. 
The  giant  windows*  blazon'd  tires. 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  ths 
glory  ! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues. 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flushed,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 

To  Como  ;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 

Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded  ;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burden  music,  kept, 
As  on  The  Lariano  crept 

To  tliat  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake. 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew. 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summil 
1  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me. 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea ; 


WILL 


355 


So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me. 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by  : 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 
The  gloom   that   saddens   Heaven   and 
Earth, 
The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain. 

Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me, 
My  fancy  tied  to  the  South  again. 


TO   THE   REV.    F.    D.    MAURICE. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ, 
God-father,  come  and  see  your  boy  : 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter. 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few. 
Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due, 
Should  eighty-thousand  college-coun- 
cils 
Thunder  "Anathema,"  friend,  at  you  ; 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right. 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would   give    you 
welcome 
(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight ; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of  town, 
I  watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 

All  round  a  careless-order'd  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a  noble  down. 

You  '11  have  no  scandal  while  you  dine, 
But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine. 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a  roof  of  pine  : 

For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 
To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand  ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a  breaker  on  chalk  and  sand  ; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep, 

And  on  thro'  zones  of  light  and  shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep. 


We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a  selfish  war  begin  ; 

Dispute     the    claims,     arrange     the 
chances ; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win  : 

Or  whether  war's  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood  ; 

Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer  matters,. 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God  ; 

How  best  to  helji  the  slender  store, 
How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor ; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances, 
Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 

Come,  Maurice,  come  :  the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 
But  when  the  wreath  of  March  has 
blossom'd, 
Crocus,  anemone,  violet, 

Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear ; 

Nor  jiay  but  one,  but  come  for  many. 
Many  and  many  a  happy  year. 

January,  1854. 

WILL. 


0  WELL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  ! 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long  ; 
He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong  : 
For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world's  ran- 
dom mock. 
Nor  all  Calamity's  hugest  waves  confound, 
Who  seems  a  promontory  of  rock, 
That,  compass'd  round  with  turbulent 

sound. 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest-buffeted,  citadel-crown'd. 


But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with 

time. 
Corrupts   the    strength    of   heaven  -  de- 
scended Will, 
And  ever  weaker  grows  thro'  acted  crime, 
Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 
Recurring  and  suggesting  still  ! 
He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps  halt, 
Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand, 
And  o'er  a  weary,  sultry  land. 
Far  beneath  a  blazing  vault, 
Sown  in  a  wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill. 
The  city  sparkles  like  a  grain  of  salt. 


S54 


THE  CHARGE   OF   THE  LIGHT   BRIGADE. 


'  O  the  wild  charge  they  made  I 
All  the  world  wondered. 


THE  CHARGE  OF  THE   LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade 
"Was  there  a  man  disniay'd  ? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  Icnew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd : 
Theii's  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 


Theirs  but  to  do  and  die ; 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundi'ed. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  sheli 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Fla.sh'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 


ENOCH    ARDEN. 


355 


All  the  world  wonder'd  : 

Plungeil  in  the  biittery-sinoke, 
Right  tluo'  the  line  they  broke 
Cossaciv  and  Russian 
Keel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  tliey  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  thcni, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 


While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
0  the  wild  charge  they  made  I 

All  tlic  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  ciiarge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  I 


'^Z 


ENOCH  ARDEN.'' 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 

LoMd  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a 

chasm  ; 
And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow 

sands  ; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a  Viarrow  wharf 
In  cluster ;  then  a  moulder'd  church  ; 

and  liigher 
A  long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower'd 

mill  ; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a  gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows  ;  and  a  hazelwood; 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a  cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  ])ort. 
And  Philip  Kay  the  miller's  only  son, 
And  Enoch  Arden,  a  rough  sailor's  lad 
Made   orphan    by  a   winter   shipwreck, 

play'd 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing- 
nets, 
Ajichors  of   rusty  fluke,   and  boats  up- 
drawn  ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow'd,  or  following 

And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash'd  away. 


A  narrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff: 
In  this  the  children  play'd  at  keeping 

house. 
Knoch  was  host  one  day,  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress  ;  but  at 

times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a  week  : 
"  This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife. " 
"Mine  too"  said  Philip  "turn  and  turn 

about"  : 
Wjien,  if  they  quarrell'd,  Enoch  stron- 
ger-made 
Was   master  :   then   would    Pliilip,    his 

blue  eyes 
All  flooded  with  thehelpless  wrath  of  tears. 
Shriek  out  "  I  hate  you,  Enoch,"  and  at 

this 
The  little  wife  w'ould  weep  for  company, 
And  pray  them  nottoqnarrel  forhersake. 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood 

past. 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life's  ascending 

sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl ;  and  Enoch  spoke  his  love. 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence  ;  and  the  girl 
Seem'd  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him  ; 
But  she  loved  Enoch  ;tho' she  knew  it  not, 
And  would  if  ask'd  deny  it.     Enoch  set 
A  purpose  evermore  before  his  eyes. 
To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 


356 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a 

home 
For  Annie  :  and  so  prosper'd  that  at  last 
A  luckier  or  a  bolder  fisherman, 
A  carefuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that   breaker-beaten 

coast 
Than  Enoch.     Likewise  had  he  served  a 

year 
On   boaid   a   merchantman,    and  made 

himself 
Full  sailor ;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a 

life 
From   the   dread   sweep   of   the  .down- 
streaming  seas  : 
And  all  men  look'd  upon  him  favorably  : 
And  ere  he  touch'd  his  one-and-twen- 

tieth  May 
He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a 

home 
For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,half\vay  up 
The  narrow  street  that  clamber'd  toward 

the  mill. 

Then,  on  a  golden  autumn  eventide, 
The  younger  people  making  holiday. 
With   bag  and  sack  and   basket,  great 

and  small. 
Went  nutting  to  the  hazels.   Philipstay'd 
(His  fatlier  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 
An  hour  behind  ;  but  as  he  climb'd  the 

hill, 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in-hand. 
His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten 

face 
All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire, 
Thatburn'd  asonan  altar.     Philiplook'd, 
And  in  their  eyesand  faces  read  his  doom  ; 
Then,  astheirfacesdrewtogether,  groan'd. 
And  .slipt  aside, and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood  ; 
Thare,  wliile  the  rest  were  loud  in  merry- 

nirJang, 
Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and 

past 
Bearing  a  lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang 
the  bells. 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy 
years, 

Seven-happy  years  of  health  and  compe- 
tence. 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 


With  children  ;    first  a  daughter.      In 

him  woke. 
With  his  first  balie's  first  cry,  the  noble 

wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 
And  give  his  child  a  better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers  ;   a  wish  re- 

new'd. 
When  two  years  after  came  a  boy  to  be 
The  ro.sy  idol  of  her  solitudes. 
While  Enoch  was  abroad  on  wrathfulseas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward  ;  for  in 

truth 
Enoch's  white  horse,  and  Enoch's  ocean- 
spoil 
In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face. 
Rough-redden 'd  with  a  thousand  winter 

gales. 
Not  only  to  the  market-cross  wereknown, 
But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down, 
Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 
And  peaco(  k-yewtree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch's  minister- 
ing. 

Then  came  a  change,  as  all  things  hu- 
man change. 
Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open'd  a  larger  haven  :  thither  used 
Enoch  at  times  to  go  by  land  or  sea  ; 
And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on 

a  mast 
In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slipt  and  fell : 
A  limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him ; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  anotlier  son,  a  sickly  one  : 
Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  :   and  on 

him  fell, 
Altho'  a  grave  and  staid  God-fearingman, 
Yet lyingthus inactive,  doubt  andgloom. 
He  seem'd,  as  in  a  nightmare  of  the  night, 
To  see  his  children  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth. 
And  her,   he  loved,   a  beggar  :  then  hf 

pray'd 
"  Save  them  from  this,  whatever  come.' 

to  me." 
And  while  he  pray'd,  the  master  of  that 

ship 
Enoch  had  served   in,  hearing  his  mis- 
chance, 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued 

him, 
Reporting  of  his  vessel  China  bound. 
And  wanting  yet  a  boatswain.     Would 
be  go? 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


357 


Thert)  yet  were  many  weeks  before  she 

sail'd, 
Sail'd   from    this   port.     Would   Enoch 

have  the  place  ? 
And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it, 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  a]> 

pear'd 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  oil"  the  tiery  highway  of  the  sun, 
And  isles  a  light  in  the  offing  :  yet  the 

wife  — 
When   he   was   gone  —  the   children  — 

what  to  do  ? 
Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 

plans  ; 
To  sell  the  boat  —  and  yet  he  loved  her 

well  — 
How  many  a  rough  sea  had  he  weather'd 

in  her  I 
He  knew  her,  as  a  horseman  knows  liis 

horse  — 
And  yet  to  sell  her  •  ^  then  with  what  she 

brought 
Buy  goods  and  stores  —  set  Annie  forth 

in  trade 
With  all   that  seamen  needed   or   their 

wives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he 

was  gone. 
Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder  ? 

go 
This  voyage  mora  than  once  ?  yea  twice 

or  thrice  — 
As  oft  as  needed  —  last,  returning  rich, 
Become  the  master  of  a  larger  craft. 
With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 
Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated. 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all : 
Then  movang  homeward  came  on  Annie 

pale, 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-born. 
Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry. 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 

limbs, 
Appiaised his  weight  and  fondled  father- 
like. 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch's  golden  ring 
had  girt 
Her  finger,  Anni6  fought  against  his  will  : 


Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she, 
Hut  manifold  entreaties,  many  a  tear, 
Many  a  .sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew'd 
^Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
ik'sought  him,  .supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  liis  dear  children,  not  to  go. 
He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her, 
Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in 

v;dn  ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it 

thro'. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea- 
friend, 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set 

his  hand 
To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and 

stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch's  last  at  home. 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and 

axe. 
Auger  and. saw,  while  Annie  .seem'd  to  hear 
Her  own  'death-scfc;!tbld  raising,  shrill'd 

and  rang, 
Till   this   was   endtHl,    and    his   careful 

hand,  — 
Tiie  space  was  narrow,  —  having  order'd 

all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  a.';  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or   her  seedling,   paused ; 

and  he. 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the 

last. 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  fare- 
well 
Brightly  and  boldly.  All  his  Annie's  fears, 
Save,  as  his  Annie's,  were  a  laughter  to 

him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a  brave  God-fearirg  man 
Bow'd  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in 

God, 
Pray'd  forablessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him  :  and  then  he  said 
"  Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 
Keep  a  clean  hearth  and  a  clear  fire  forme, 
For  I  '11  be  back,  my  girl,  before   you 

know  it." 
Then  lightly  rocking  baby's  cradle  "and 

he. 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 
Nay  —  for  I  love  him  all  the  better  for 
it  — 


358 


ENOCH  AKDEN. 


"  Forward  she  started  with  a  happy  cry. 
And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms." 


''Od  bless  liiin,  he  shall  sit  upon  my 

knees 
And   I   will  tell  him   tales  of  foreign 

parts, 
And  make  him  meny,  when  I  come  home 

ac;ai]i. 
Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I  go.'' 

Him  numing  on  thus  hopefully  she 

heard, 
And  almost  hojied  herself  ;  but  when  he 

turn'd 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  gi'aver  things 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she 

heard. 


Heard  and  not  heard  him  ;  as  the  village 

girl, 
Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath   the 

spring, 
Iilusing'on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for 

her, 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  ovei^flow. 

At  length  she  spoke  "0  Enoch,  you 
are  wise  ; 
And  j'et  for  all  3/our  ■wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I  shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more. " 

"Well  then,"  said  Enoch,   "I  slialJ 
look  on  yours. 
Annie,  the  ship  I  sail  in  passes  here 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


859 


(He  aamed  the  day) ;  get  you  a  seaman's 
glass,  I 

Spy  out  my  lace,  and  laugh  at  all  your  I 
fears."  [ 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments  ! 

came, 
"Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  comforted. 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I  come  again, 
Keepeverytliing shipshape,  for  I  niustgo. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me  ;  or  if  you  fear  j 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God  ;  that  anchor 

holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  ?  if  I  flee  to  these 
Can  I  go  from  Him  ?  and  the  sea  is  His, 
The  sea  is  His  :  He  made  it." 

Enoch  rose, 
Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping 

wife. 
And  kiss'd  his  wonder-stricken  little  ones ; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who 

slept 
After  a  night  of  feverous  wakefulness. 
When  Annie  would  have  raised  liim  Enoch 

said 
*'  Wake  him  not  ;  let  him  sleep  ;  how 

should  the  child 
Remember  this?"  and  kiss'd  him  in  his 

cot. 
But  Annie  from  her  baby's  fort  head  dipt 
A  tiny  curl,  and  gave  it :  this  he  kept 
Thro'   all   his  future ;   but   now  hastily 

cauglit 
His  bunille,  waved  his  hand,  and  went 

his  way. 


She  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  men-, 
tion'd,  came, 

BorrowM  a  glass,  but  all  in  vain  :  perhaps 

She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye ; 

Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremu- 
lous ; 

She  saw  him  not  :  and  while  he  stood  on 
deck 

Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

Ev'n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishingsail 
She  watch'd    it,  and  departed  weeping 

for  him  ; 
Then,  tho'  she  mourn'd  his  absence  as 

his  grave, 
Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his. 
But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  uor  compensating  the  want 


By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 
Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less. 
And  still  foreboding  "what  would  Enoch 

say  ? " 
For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  foi 

less 
Than  what  she  gave  in  buying  what  she 

sold  : 
She  fail'd  and  saddeu'd  knowing  it ;  and 

thus, 
E.xpectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Gain'd  for  her  own  a  scanty  sustenance^ 
And  lived  a  life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly-bom 

and  gi'ew 
Yet  sickliei-,  tho'  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a  mother's  care  :  nevertlieless, 
Whether  her  business  often   call'd  her 

from  it, 
Or  thro'  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most, 
Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could 

tell 
What  most  it  needed  —  howsoe'er  it  was, 
After  a  lingering,  —  ere  she  was  aware,  — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 
The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  bur- 
ied it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger'd  for 

her  j)eace 
(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look'd  upon 

her). 
Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 
"Surely"   said  Philip  "I   may  see  her 

now. 
May  be  some  little  comfort  "  ;  therefore 

went. 
Past  thro'  the  solitary  room  in  front, 
Paused  for  a  moment  at  an  inner  door, 
Thenstruck  itthrice,  and,  nooneopening, 
Enter'd;  but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief, 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one. 
Cared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 
But  turn'd  her  own  toward  the  wall  anci 

wept. 
Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteringly 
"Annie,  I  came  to  ask  a  favor  of  you." 

He  spoke  ;  the  passion  in  her  moan'd 
reply 
"  Favor  from  one  so  sad  and  so  forlorn 
As  lam!"  halfabash'dhim  ;  yetunask'd. 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war. 
He  set  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her ; 


360 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


"  I  came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  lie 

wisli'd, 
Enoch,  your  husband  :  I  have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us  ---a  strong 

man  : 
For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 
Todothe  thinghewill'd,  and  bore  it  thro'. 
And  wherefore  did  lie  go  this  weary  way, 
And  leave  you  lonely  ?   not  to  see   the 

world  — 
For  pleasure  ?  —  nay,  but  for  tl:e  where- 
withal 
To  give  his  babes  a  better  bringing-ijp 
Than  his  had  been  or  yours  :  that  was 

his  wish. 
And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were 

lost. 
And  it  would  vex  hi.n  even  in  his  grave, 
I  f  he  could  know  Ms  babes  were  running 

wild 
Like  colts  about  the  waste.     So,  Annie, 

now  — 
Have  we  not  known  each  other  all  our 

.      lives  ? 
1  do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay — 
For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 
Why  then  he  shall  re]:)ay  rue  —  if  you  will, 
Annie  —  for  I  am  rich  and  well-to-do. 
Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school : 
This  is  the  favor  that  I  came  to  ask." 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the 

w^all 
Answer'd  "I  cannot  look  you  in  the  face ; 
I  seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down. 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me 

down  ; 
And  now  I  think  your  kindness  breaks 

me  down ; 
But  Enoch  lives ;  that  is  borne  in  on  me  : 
He  will  repay  you  :  money  can  be  repaid  ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours." 

And  Philip  ask'd 
"  Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ? " 

There  she  turn'd, 
She  rose,  and  fixt  her   swimming   eyes 

upon  him, 
And  dwelt  a  moment  on  his  kindly  face, 
Then  calling  down  a  blessing  on  his  head 
Caught  at  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  pas- 
sionately. 
And  ]iast  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 
So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 


Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to 

school. 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and 

everyway, 
Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 
Made  himself  theirs ;  and  tho'  for  Annie's 

sake. 
Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port. 
He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish, 
Andseldomcrosther  threshold, yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and 

fruit. 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  liis  wall. 
Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and 

then, 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  oflence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the 

waste. 

But  Philip   did  not   fathom   Annie's 

mind  : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came 

upon  her. 
Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless giatitude 
Light  on  a  broken  word  to  thank  him 

with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children's  all-in-all ; 
From  distant  corners  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  gi'eet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily  ; 
Lords  of  his  house  and  of  hismill  were  they ; 
Wonied  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,    hung  upon   him,  play'd 

with  him 
And  call'd  him  Father  Philip.     Philip 

gain'd 
As  Enoch  lost ;  for  Enoch  seem'd  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a  vision  or  a  dream. 
Faint  as  a  figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue. 
Going  M'e  know  not  where  :  and  so  ten 

years. 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native 

land. 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 

It  chanced  one  evening  Annie's  chlL 
dren  long'd 
To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 
And  Annie  would  go  with  them  ;  then 

they  begg'd 
For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call'd  him)  too  : 
Him,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom- 
dust, 
Blanch'd  with  his  mill,  they  found  ;  and 

saying  to  him 
"  Cora  e  with  us  Father  Philip  "  he  denied  j 


ENOCH  AEDEN. 


361 


Then  Philip  put  the  boy  ami  girl  to  school. 
And  bought  them  needful  books." 


But  when  the  children  phick'd  at  him 

to  go, 
He  laugh'd,  and  yielded  readily  to  their 

wish. 
For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ?  and  they 

went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down. 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood 

began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 
Fail'dher;  and  sighing  "let  me  rest" 

she  said  : 
So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content ; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubilant 

cries 


Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumnltuously 
Down  thro'  the  whitening  hazels  made  a 

plunge 
To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent 

or  broke 
The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the 

wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark 

hour 
Here  in  this  wood,  when  like  a  wounded 

life 
He  crept  into  tte  shadow  :  at  last  lie  said 


362 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


Lifting  liis  hones*;  forehead    "Listen, 

Annie, 
How  mei'iy  they  are  down  yonder  in  the 

wood. 
Tired,  Annie  ? "  for  she  did   not  speak 

a  word. 
"  Tired  ?  "  butherfacehadfaU'nuponher 

hands ; 
At  which,  as  with  a  kind  of  anger  in  him, 
" The  ship  was  lost "  he  said  "the  ship 

was  lost ! 
No  more  of  that !  why  should  you  kill 

yourself 
And  make  thein  orphans  quite  ? "     And 

Annie  said 
"  1  thought  not  of  it :  but  —  I  know  not 

why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary. " 

Then  Philip  coming  somewhat  closer 

spoke. 
"  Annie,  there  is  a  thing  upon  my  mind. 
And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long. 
That  tho'  I  know  not  when  it  first  came 

there, 
1  know  that  it  will  out  at  last.    0  Annie, 
It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance, 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living;  well  then  —  let 

me  speak  : 
I  grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  wanting  lielp  : 
1  cannot  help  you  as  I  wish  to  do 
Unless  —  they  say   that  women   are  so 

quick  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I  would  have 

you  know  — 
I  wish  you  for  my  A\-ife.    I  fain  would  prove 
A  father  to  your  children  :  1  do  think 
They  love  me  as  a  father  :  I  am  sure 
That  I  love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own  ; 
And  1  believe,  if  you  Mere  fast  my  wife. 
That  after  all  these  sad  iincertain  years, 
We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  His  creatures.     Think  upon  it : 
For  I  am  well-to-do  —  no  kin,  no  care. 
No  burden,  save  my  care  for  you  and 

yours  : 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our 

lives. 
And  I  have  loved  you  longer  than  you 

know. " 

Then   answer'd   Annie  ;  tenderly  she 

spoke  : 
"  You  have  been  as  God's  good  angel  in 

our  house. 
God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  youfor  it, 


Philip,  with  something  happier  than  my- 
self. 
Can  once  love  twice  ?  can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was  ?  what  is  it  that  j^ou  ask  ? " 
"1   am  content"  he  answer'd  "to   be 

loved 
A  little  after  Enoch."     "  0  "  she  cried 
Scared  as  it  Mere  ' ' dear  Philip,  M'ait  e 

while  : 
If  Enoch  conies — but   Enoch  will  not 

come  — 
Yet  M'ait  a  j'ear,  a  year  is  not  so  long  ; 
Surely  I  shall  be  M'iser  in  a  year  : 

0  Mait  a  little  !  "  Philip  sadly  said 
"Annie,  as  1  have  Maited  all  my  life 

1  M'ell  may  Mait  a  little."    "Nay"shecried 
"I  am  bound  :  you  have  my  promise  — 

in  a  year  : 
Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I  bide 

mine  ?" 
And  Philip  answer'd  "I  will  bide  my 

year." 

Here  both  M-ere  mute,  till  Philip  glan- 
cing up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  tlie  Danish  barroM'  overhead  ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Anuie 

rose. 
And  sent  his   voice  beneath  him  thro' 

the  M'ood. 
Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their 

spoil  : 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie's  door  he  paused  and  gave  his 

hand. 
Saying  gently  "Annie,  when  I  spoke  to 

you, 
That  was  your  hour  of  Meakness.     I  was 

M'rong. 
I  am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are 

free." 
Then  Annie  M-eeping  answer'd    "  I  am 

bound." 

She  spoke  ;  and  in  one  moment  as  it 

were. 
While  yet  she  M-ent  about  her  householci 

■ways, 
Ev'n  as  she  dM'elt  upon  his  latest  words, 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she 

knew. 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash'd  again. 
And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her 

face, 
Claiming  her  promise.     "  Is  it  a  year?" 

she  ask'd. 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


363 


"Yes,  if  thenuts"hesaia  "be  ripe  again  : 
Come  out  and  see."     But  she  —  she  put 

him  oif  — 
So  much  to  look  to  —  such  a  change — a 

month  — 
Give  her  a  month  —  she  knew  that  she 

was  bound  — 
A  month  —  no  more.     Then  Philip  with 

his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand, 
"  Take  your  own  lime,  Annie,  take  your 

own  time." 
And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of 

him  ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a  scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long-suH'erance, 
Till  half-auother  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port. 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  jiersonal  wrong. 
Son.e  thouglit  that  Piiilip  did  but  trifle 

with  her  ; 
Some  thatshebut  held  off  todraw  him  on  ; 
And  others  laugh'd  at  her  and  Philip  too, 
As  simple  foik  that  knew  not  tlicir  own 

minds  ; 
And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  togetlier.  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.    Her  own 

son 
Was  silent,  tho'  he  often  look'd  his  wish ; 
But  evermore  the  daughter  prest  upon 

her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty  ; 
And  Philip's  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan  ;  and  all  these  things 

fell  on  her 
Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  earnestly 
Pray'dforasign  "my  Enoch  is  he  gone?" 
Then  compass'd  round  by  the  blind  wall 

of  night 
Brook'd  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her 

heart. 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a 

light, 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a  sign, 
Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 
*'  Under  the  palm-tree. "    That  was  noth- 
ing to  her : 


No  meaning  there  :  she  closed  the  Book 

and  slept  ; 
When  lo  !  her  Enoch  sitting  on  a  height, 
Under  a  palm-tree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 
"  He  is  gone"  she  thought  "he  is  happy, 

he  is  singing 
Hosanna  in  the  highest  :  yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Kighteousness,  and  these  be 

palms 
Whereof  the  happy  people  strewing  cried 
'  Hosanna  in  the  highest  ! ' "     Here  she 

woke. 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly 

to  him 
' '  Theie  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not 

wed." 
"Then  for  God's   sake,"  he   answer' d, 

"  both  our  sakes, 
So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once." 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang 

the  bells. 
Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie's  heart. 
A  footstep  seem'd  to  fall  beside  her  path, 
She  knew  not  whence  ;  a  whisjjer  ou  her 

car, 
She  knew  not  what ;  nor  loved  she  to  be 

left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ail'd  lier  then,  that  ere  she  enter' d, 

often 
Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch. 
Fearing  to  enter  :     Philip  thought   he 

knew  : 
Such  doubts  and  feare  were  common  to 

her  state. 
Being  with  child  :  but  when  her  child 

was  born. 
Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself  renew'd, 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her 

heart, 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all. 
And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch  ?    prosperously 
sail'd 
The  ship  "  Good  Fortune,"  tho'  at  set- 
ting forth 
The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward, 

shook 
And  almost  overwhelm'd  her,  yet  unvext 
She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the  world, 
Then  after  a  long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair, 
She  passing  thro' the  summer  world  again, 
The  breath  of  heaven  came  continually 


864 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


"  By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a  calculation  crost, 
Began  to  chafe  as  at  a  personal  wrong." 


And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 
Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and 

bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those 

times, 
A  gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage  :  at  first 
indeed 
Thro'  many  a  fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day. 
Scarce-rocking,    her   full-busted   figure- 
head 


Stared  o'er  the  ripple  feathering  froBB. 

her  bows : 
Then   follow'd  calms,    and  then  winds 

variable. 
Then  baffling,  a  long  course  of  them  i 

and  last 
Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moon* 

less  heavens 
Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  "  breakers"came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 
But  Enoch  and  two  others.     Half  the 

night, 
Buoy'd  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken 

spars, 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


365 


These  drifted,    strandiug  on  an  isle  at 

morn 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a  lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,and  nourish- 
ing roots ; 
Nor  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 
There   in   a   seaward-gazing   mountain- 
gorge 
They  built,  and  thatch'd  with  leaves  of 

palm,  a  hut, 
Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.      So  the 

three. 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  pknteousness. 
Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more 
than  boy, 

Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and 
wreck, 

Lay  lingering  out  a  five-years'  death- 
in-life. 

They  could  not  leave  him.  After  he 
was  gone, 

The  two  remaining  found  a  fallen  stem  ; 

And  Enoch's  comrade,  careless  of  him«elf, 

Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  fell 

Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 

In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God's  warn- 
ing "  wait." 

The   mountain  wooded    to  the  peak, 

the  lawns 
And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways 

to  Heaven, 
The   slender  coco's  drooping  crown   of 

plumes. 
The  lightning  flash  of  insect  and  of  bird, 
The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil'd   around    the   stately  stems, 

and  run 
Ev'n  to  the  Umit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world, 
All  these  he  saw  ;  but  what  he  fain  had 

seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face. 
Nor  ever  hear  a  kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean- 
fowl. 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the 

reef, 
The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that 

branch'd 
And  blossom'd  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave, 


As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day 

long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward-gazing  gorge, 
A  shipwreck'd  sailor,  waiting  for  a  sail: 
No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  preci 

pices ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 
The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead  ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west ; 
Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  them- 
selves in  Heaven, 
The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  —  but  no  sail. 

There  often  as  he  watch'd  or  seem'a 

to  watch, 
So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 
A   phantom   made   of  many   phantoms 

moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
Moved    haunting   people,     things    and 

places,  known 
Far  in  a  darker  isie  beyond  the  line  ; 
The   babes,    their   babble,    Annie,    the 

small  house, 
The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy 

lanes. 
The  peacock-yewtreeand  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the 

chill  ^ 
November   dawns    and   dewy-glooming 

downs, 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying 

leaves. 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color'd  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringingofhisears, 
Tho' faintl J',  merrily  —  far  and  faraway — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  i)arish  bells; 
Then,  tho'  he  knew  not  wherefore,  start- 
ed up 
Shuddering,    and   when   the   beauteous 

hateful  isle 
Return'd  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which   being  every- 
where 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem 

all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 

Thus  over  Enoch's  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and 

went 
Year  after  year.     His  hopes  to  see  his 

own, 


366 


ENOCH  AKDEN. 


And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields, 
Not  yet  bad  perish' d,   when  his  lonely 

doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.  Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)    blown    by  baffling 

winds, 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined 

course, 
Stay'd  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where 

she  lay  : 
For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 
Across  a  break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills, 
They  sent  a  crew  that  landing  burst  away 
In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  fill'd 

the  shores 
With    clamor.       Downward    from    his 

mountain  gorge 
Stept  the  long-hair'd  long-bearded  soli- 
tary. 
Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely 

clad. 
Muttering  and   mumbling,  idiotlike   it 

seem'd, 
With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 
They  knew  not  what  :   and  yet  he  led 

the  way 
To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  ran  ; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 
And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-bounden 

tongue 
Was  loosen'd,  till  he  made  them  under- 
stand ; 
Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fill'd  they 

took  aboard  : 
And  there  the  tale  he  utter'd  brokenly, 
Scar.;e-credited  at  first  but  more  and  more. 
Amazed  and  melted  all  wholisten'd  to  it : 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  pas- 
sage home  ; 
But  oft  he  work'd  amongthe  rest  and  shook 
His  isolation  from  him.     None  of  these 
Came  from  his  county,  or  could  answer 

him. 
If  question'd,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to 

know. 
And  dull  the  voyage  was  witb  long  delays. 
The  vessel  scarce  sea- worthy  ;  but  ever- 
more 
His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind 
Eeturning,  till  beneath  a  clouded  moon 
He  like  a  lover  down  thro'  all  his  blood 
Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning- 
breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall: 
And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 
Levied  a  kindly  tax  upon  themselves. 


Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it : 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed 

him, 
Ev'n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail'd  be- 
fore. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  anyone. 
But   homeward  —  home  —  what  home? 

had  he  a  home  ? 
His  home,  he  walk'd.     Bright  was  that 

afternoon, 
Sunny  but  chill ;  till  drawn  tliro'  either 

chasm, 
Where  either  haven  open'd  on  the  deeps, 
RoU'd  a  sea-haze  and  whelm'd  the  world 

in  gray  ; 
Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before, 
And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and 

right 
Of  wither'd  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 
On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Robin  piped 
Disconsolate,  and  thro'  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it 

down  : 
Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom ; 
Last,  as  it  seem'd,  a  great  mist-blotted 

light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the 

place. 

Then   down   the   long  street  having 

slowly  stolen. 
His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity, 
His  eyes  upon  the  stOKes,  he  reach'd  the 

home 
Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and 

his  babes 
In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were 

born  ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  muimur 

there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam'd  thro'  the  drizzle) 

crept 
Still  downward  thinking  "  dead  or  deac 

to  me  ! " 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf 

he  went. 
Seeking  a  tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 
A  front  of  timber-crost  antiquity. 
So  propt,  worm-eaten,  ruinously  old. 
He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ;  but  he 

was  gone 
Who  kept  it ;   and  his  widow,   Miriam 

Lane, 
With   daily-dwindling  profits  held,  the 

house ; 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


367 


Ahaimtofhrawlingseamenonce,  butjiow 
Stiller,  with  yet  a  bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

But  Miriam  Lane  was  good  and  gar- 
rulous, 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in. 
Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  tlie  port, 
Not  knowing  —  Enoch  was  so  brown,  so 

bow'd. 
So  broken  —  all  the  story  of  his  house. 
His  baby's  death,  her  growing  poverty. 
How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school, 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her. 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the 

birth 
Of  Philip's  child  :   and  o'er  his  counte- 
nance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion  :  anyone, 
Regarding,  well  had  deem'd  he  felt  the  tale 
Lessthanthe  teller  :  only  when  she  closed 
"  Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and 

lost " 
He,  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated    muttering   "cast   away   and 

lost"  ; 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  "  lost ! " 

But  Enoch  j-earn'd  to  see  her  face  again  ; 
"  If  I  might  look  on  her  sweet  f;ice  again 
And  know  tliat  she  is  happy."     So  the 

thought 
Haunted  and  harass'd  him,  and  drove 

him  forth. 
At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below  ; 
There  did  a  thousand  memories  roll  upon 

him. 
Unspeakable  for  sadness.     By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light. 
Far-blazing  from   the   rear   of   Philip's 

house. 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 
The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip's  dwelliag  fronted  on  the 

street. 
The  latest  house  to  landward ;  but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open'd  on  the 

waste, 
Flourish'd  a   little   garden   square   and 

wall'd  : 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 
A  yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a  walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a  walk  divided  it ; 


But  Enoch  shunn'd  the  middle  walk  and 

stole 
Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew  ;  and 

thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunn'd, 

if  griefs 
Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  bumish'd 

board 
Sparkled  and  shone  ;  so  genial  was  the 

hearth  : 
And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearthhesaw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times, 
Stout,  ros}'^,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees ; 
And  o'er  her  second  fatiier  stoopt  a  girl, 
A  later  but  a  loftier  Annie  Lee, 
Fair-hair'd  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted 

^land 
Dangled  a  length  of  ribbon  and  a  ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear'd  his  creasy 

arms, 
Caught  at  and  ever  miss'd  it,  and  they 

laugh'd  : 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he 

saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her 

babe. 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with 

him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  beside  her  tall  and 

strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for 

he  smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life 

beheld 
His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the 

babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father's  knee, 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  hap- 
piness, 
And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful, 
And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place, 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children's 

love,  — 
Then  he,  tho'  Miriam  Lane  had  told  him 

all. 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than 

things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch, 

and  fear'd 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry, 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of 

doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the 

hearth. 


368 


ENOCH   ARDEN. 


He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a  thief, 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  un- 
derfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-wall, 
Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and 

be  found. 
Crept  to  the  gate,  andopen'dit,  and  closed, 
As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber-door, 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  tliere  he  would  have  knelt,  but 
that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray'd. 

"  Too  hard  to  bear  !  why  did  they  take 

me  then'je  ? 
0  God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 
Uphold  me.  Father,  in  my  loneliness 
A  little  longer  !  aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 
Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 
My  children  too  !  must  1  not  speak  to 

these  ? 
They  know  me  not.     I  should  betray 

myself 
Never  :  no  father's  kiss  for  me — the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  tlie  boy,  my  son." 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature 

fail'd  a  little. 
And  he  lay  tranced  ;  but  when  he  rose 

and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again. 
All  down  the  long  and  narrow  street  he 

went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burden  of  a  song, 
"  Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know." 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.  His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will. 
And  beating  up  thro'  all  the  bitter  world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 
Kept  him  a  living  soul.      "  This  miller's 

wife  " 
He  said  to  Miriam  "that  you  told  me  of. 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband 

lives?" 
"  Ay,  ay,  poor  soul "  said  Miriam,  "fear 

enow  ! 
If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him 

dead, 
Why.  that  would  be  her  comfort "  ;  and 

he  thought 


"After  the  Lord  has  call'd  zne  she  shall 

know, 
I  wait  His  time  "  and  Enoch  set  himself, 
Scorning  an  alms,  lowork  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  toall  things  could  he  turn  hishand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and  wrought 
To   make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or 

help'd 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks. 
That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of 

those  days  ; 
Thus  earn'd  a  scanty  living  for  himself ; 
Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself. 
Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life 

in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live ;  and  as  the 

year 
RoU'd  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  hadretum'd,  alanguorcame 
Upon  him.,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no 

more. 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last 

his  bed. 
And  Enoch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 
For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded 

wreck 
See  thro'  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  ap- 
proach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawningon  him,  and  the  closeof  all. 

For  thro'  that  dawning  gleam'd  a  kind- 
lier hope 
On  Enoch  thinking  "after  I  am  gone. 
Then  may  she  learn  I  loved  her  to  the 

last." 
He  call'd  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said 
"Woman,  1  have  a  secret  —  only  swear. 
Before  1  tell  you  —  swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead." 
' '  Dead  "  clamor'd  the  good  woman  ' '  hear 

him  talk  ! 
I  warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you 

round." 
"Swear"  added  Enoch  sternly  "on  tho 

book." 
And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  JMiriam 

swore. 
Then  Enoch  roUinghisgray  eyes  upon  her, 
"Did  you  knowEnoch  Arden  of  thia 

town  ? " 
"Know  him?"  she  said  "I  knew  him 

far  away. 
Ay,  ay,  I  mind  him  coming  down  the 

street ; 


"  Fast  flowed  the  current  of  her  easy  tears.''     See  paee  369. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


369 


"Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain. 
As  tho'  it  were  the  burden  of  a  song, 
'  Not  to  tcU  her,  never  to  let  her  know.' 


Held   his  head  high,  and  cared  for  uo 

iimn,  he." 
Slowly  and  sailly  Enoch  answer'd  her  ; 
"His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for 

him. 
I  think  I  have  not  three  days  more  to  live ; 
I  am  the  man."  At  which  the  woman  gave 
A  half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 
"You  Arden,  you!  Aay, — sure  he  was 

a  foot 
Higher  than  you  he."    Enoch  said  again 
"My  God  has  bow'd  me  down  to  what 

I  am  ; 
My  giief  and  solitude  have  broken  me  ; 
Neverthele.ss,  know  you  that  I  am  he 


W]m  manied  —  but  that  name  has  twice 

been  changed  — 
1  married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray. 
Sit,  li.sten."     Then  he  told  her  of  his 

voyage, 
His^vl■eck,  hislonelylife,  hiscomingback, 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve, 
Andhow  he  kept  it.   Asthe  woman  heard, 
Fast  flow'd  the  current  of  her  easy  tear.s, 
While   in   her  heart  she  yearn'd  inces- 
santly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven. 
Proclaiming  Eiioeli  Arden  and  his  woes  ; 
But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  for- 
bore. 


370 


aylmer's  field. 


Saying  only  "  See  your  bairns  before  you 

go!" 
Eh,  let  rae  fetch  'em,  Arden,"  and  arose 
Eager  to  bringthem  down,  for  Enoclihung 
A  moment  on  her  words,  but  tlien  replied. 

"Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the 

last. 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I  die. 
Sit  down  again  ;  markmeandunderstand. 
While  I  have  power  to  speak.     I  charge 

you  now. 
When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I 

died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her  ; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us,  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I  saw- 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying 

for  her. 
And  tell  my  son  that  T  died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I  blest  him  too  ; 
He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 
But  if  my  children  care  to  see  nie  dead, 
Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them 

come, 
I  am  their  father  ;  but  she  must  not  come, 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after- 
life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood, 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be  : 
This  hair  is  his  :  she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it. 
And  I  have  borne  it  with  me  all  these 

years, 
And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my 

grave  ; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I  shall 

see  him. 
My  babe  in  bliss  :  wherefore  when  I  am 

gone, 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort 

her  : 
It  will  moreover  be  a  token  to  her. 
That  1  am  he." 

He  ceased  ;  and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a  voluble  answer  promising 

all, 
That  once  again  he  roll'd  his  eyes  iipon 

her 
Repeating  all  he  wish'd,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 

Then  the  third  night  after  this. 
While  Enoch  slumber' d  motionless  and 
pale, 


And  Miriam  watch'd  and  dozed  at  inter- 
vals. 

There  came  so  loud  a  calling  or  the  sea, 

That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 

He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms 
abroad 

Crying  with  a  loud  voice  "a  sail !  a  sail ! 

1  am  saved  "  ;  and  so  fell  back  and  spoke 
no  more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen  a  costlier  funeral. 


AYLMER'S   FIELD. 
1793. 

Dttst  are  our  frames  ;  and,  gilded  dust, 

our  pride 
Looks  only  for  a  moment  whole  andsound; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 
Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  ornaments. 
Which  at   a  touch  of  light,  an  air  of 

heaven, 
Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 

Here  is  a  story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came  from  a  grizzled  cripple,  whom  I  saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a  waste  field  alone  — 
Old,  and  a  mine  of  memories  —  who  had 

served. 
Long  since,  a  bygone  Rector  of  the  place, 
And  been  himself  a  part  of  what  he  told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  that  almighty 

man, 
The  county  God  —  in  whose  capacious 

hall. 
Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  family 

tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate 

king  — 
Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock'd  the 

spire. 
Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing'd  his  entry- 
gates 
And   swang   besides  on  many  a  windy 

sign  — 
Whose  eyes  from  under  a  pyramidal  head 
Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his 

own  — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than  her, 
His  only  child,  his  Editli,  whom  he  loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully  ? 
But  "he  that  marries  her  marries  her 

name  " 


AYLMEK'S   FIELD. 


3T1 


Aylmer  HalL 


This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself  aud 

wife, 
His  wife  a  faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 
Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a  card  ; 
Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  liardly 

more 
Than  his  own  shadow  in  a  sickly  sun. 

Aland  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled  corn. 
Little  about  it  stirring  save  a  brook  ! 
A  sleepy  land  where  under  the  same  wheel 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by 

year  ; 
Where   almost  all   the  village  had  one 

name  ; 
Where  Avlmer  follow'd  Aylmer  at  the 

Hall 
And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Eectory 
Thrice  over  ;  so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 
Bouud  in  au  immemorial  intimacy, 


Were  open  to  each  other  ;  tho'  to  dream 
That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well 

had  made 
The  hoar  liair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 
With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard 

his  priest 
Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of  men 
Daughters   of  God  ;   so  sleepy  was  the 

land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will'd 
it  so, 

Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range 
of  roofs. 

Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree  ? 

There  was  an  Aylmer-Averill  marriagu 
once, 

^Vlien  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  itself, 

Aud  York's  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancas- 
ter's, 


372 


AYLMER'S   FIELD. 


With  wounded  peace   vvliicn  each  had 

prick'd  to  death. 
"  Not  proven  "  Aveiill  said,  or  laughingly 
"  Some  other  race  of  Averills  "  —  prov'n 

or  no, 
What  cared  he  ?  what,  if  other  or  the 

same  ? 
He  lean'd  not  on  his  fathers  but  himseK. 
But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 
With  Averill,  and  a  year  or  two  before 
Call'd  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call'd  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighbor- 
hood, 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith, 

claim 
A  distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  hear  t  of  Edith  hearing  him . 

Sanguine  he  was  :  a  but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  the  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek  ;  and  eager  eyes,  that 

still 
Took  joyful   note  of  all  things  joyful, 

beam'd. 
Beneath  a  manelike  mass  cf  rolling  gold, 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt 

on  hers, 
Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else. 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 
Shone  like  a  mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro. 
We   know  not  wherefore  ;    bounteously 

made, 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a  troublous  touch 
Thinn'd,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a 

day, 
A  joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the 

first. 
Leolin's  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after, 

hers  : 
So  much  the  boy  foreran  ;  but  when  his 

date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates, 

he 
(Since  Averill  was  a  decade  and  a  half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and 

roll'd 
His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone 

swing, 
Made   blossom-ball    or   daisy-chain,   ar- 
ranged 
Her  garden,  sow'd  her  name  and  kept  it 

green 
In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales. 


Show'd   her  the  fairy  footings  on   the 

grass, 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  pa'ms, 
The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines, 
Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look'd  afiight  of  fairy  arrows  aim'd 
All   at   one   mark,  all   hitting :   make- 
believes 
For  Edith  and  himself  :  or  else  he  forged^ 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,boldadventure,  dungeon,  wreck, 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  tme 

love 
Orown'd  after  trial ;  sketches  rude  and 

faint. 
But  where  a  jiassion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightin- 
gale. 
And  thus  together,  save  for  coUege-timea 
Or  Te!nple-eatcn  terms,  a  couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  .>iang. 
Or  Heav'n  in   lavish  bounty  moulded, 

grew. 
And  more  and  moie,  the  maiden  woman- 
grown. 
He  wasted   hours  with  Averill ;   there, 

when  first 
The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  th;it  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That   soon   sliould   wear  the  garland ; 

there  again 
When   biO'r  and    bine  were  gather'd ; 

lastly  there 
At  Christmas  ;  ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 
On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of 

youth 
Broke  with  a  phosphorescence  cheering 

even 
My  lady  ;  and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 
No  bar  between  them  :   dull  and   self- 
involved. 
Tall  and  erect,  but  bendingfrom  his  height 
With   half-allowing   smiles   for   all  the 

world. 
And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main  —  his 

pride 
Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  }iis  ring  — 
He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 
Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin's  walking 

with  her 
Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland's,  when 

they  ran 
To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 
Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  liis  chain, 
Koaringto  make  a  third  :  and  how  should 
Love, 


AYLMERS   FIELD, 


373 


Whom  thecross-liglitningsof  four  chance- 
met  eyes 
Flash  into  tiery  life  from  nothing,  follow 
Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 
Seldom,  but  when  he  does,  Master  of  all. 

So  these  young  hearts   not   knowing 

that  they  loved, 
Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a  bar 
Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken 

ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy, 
Wander'd  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill  :  his,  a  brother's  love,  that 

hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o'er  her 

peace, 
Alight  have  been  other,  savefor  Leolin's — 
Who  knows  ?  but  so  they  wander'd,  hour 

by  hour 
Gather'd  the  blossom  that  rebloom'd,  and 

drank 
The  magic  cup  that  fill'd  itself  anew. 

A  whisper  half  reveafd  her  to  herself. 
For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the 

brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a  silence,  ran 
By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers'  homes, 
A  frequent  haunt  of  Editli,  on  low  knolls 
That  dimpling  died  into  each  other,  iiuts 
At  random  scatter'd,  each  a  nest  in  bloom. 
Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had 

wrought 
About  them  :  here  was  one  that,  sum- 

mer-blanch'd, 
Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller's- 
joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad  ;  and  here 
The  warm-blue  breathings  of  a  hidden 

hearth 
Broke  from  a  bower  of  Wne  and  honey- 
suckle : 
One  look'd  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 
A  close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with  stars : 
This  had  a  rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 
About  it ;  this,  a  milky-way  on  earth. 
Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer's 

heavens, 
A  lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors  ; 
One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted  eaves 
A  summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks  ; 
Each,    its    own    charm ;    and    Edith's 

everywhei'e  ; 
And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him, 
He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her  poor : 
For  she  —  so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving. 


Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Ku>efrom  the  clay  it  work'diu  asshepast. 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing 

by. 
Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a  height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a  voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 
A  splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor 

roofs 
Revered   as  theirs,  but    kindlier    than 

themselves 
To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  —  was  adored  ; 
He,  loved  for  herand  forhimself.    Agrasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the 

heart, 
A  childly  way  with  children,  and  a  laugh 
Kinging  like  proven  golden  coinage  true, 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy  realm, 
Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side,  the 

girl, 
Nursing  a  child,  and   turning  to   the 

warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beailed  baby-soles. 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  whisper 

"  Bless, 
God  bless  'em  :  marriages  are  made  in 

Heaven." 

A  flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear'd  it  to 

her. 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  unannounced 
With  half  a  score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 
His  own,  tlio'  keen  and  bold  and  soldierly, 
Sear'il  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair  ; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a  tongue  that  ruled  the 

hour, 
Tho'  seeming  boastful  :  so  when  first  he 

dash'd 
Into  the  chronicle  of  a  deedful  day, 
Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  "  Good  !  my  lady's  kinsman 

good  ! " 
My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock'd. 
And  rotatoiy  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 
Call'd  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  eai 
To  listen  :  unawares  they  flitted  off, 
Busj'ing  themselves  about  the  flowerage 
That  stood  from  out  a  stiff  brocade  in 

which, 
The  meteor  of  a  splendid  season,  she. 
Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 
Stept  thro'  the  stately  minuet  of  those 

days  : 
But  Edith's  eager  fancy  hurried  with  him 
Snatch'd  thro'  the  perilous  passes  of  hi* 

life: 


374 


AYLMEK'S   FIELD. 


Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 
Hated  him  with  a  momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he : 
I  know  not,  forhe  spoke  not,  only  shovver'd 
His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one 
Andmost  on  Edith  :  like  a  storm  he  came, 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a  storm 
he  went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow'd  and  ebh'd  uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there  was 

one, 
A  dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels  on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  brapch'd 

itself 
Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a  breath.     1  know  not  whence 

at  first, 
Norof  whatrace,  the  woik  ;  but  as  he  told 
The  story,  storming  a  hill-fort  of  thieves 
He  got  it  ;  for  their  captain  after  fight, 
His   comrades  having  fought  their  last 

below. 
Was  climbing  up  tlie  valley  ;  at  whom 

he  shot  : 
Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  winch 

he  clung 
Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet, 
This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now 

admired 
By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to  please. 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was  gone, 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly  : 
And  when  she  show'd  the  wealthy  scab- 
bard, saying 
"Look  what  a  lovely  piece  of  workman- 
ship !  " 
iSlight  was  his  answer  ' '  Well  —  I  care 

not  for  it  "  ; 
Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick'd 

his  hand, 
"  A  gracious  gift  to  give  a  lady,  this  !  " 
"  But  would  it  be  more  gracious"  ask'd 

the  girl 
"  Were  I  to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady "?  "     "Gracious?     No" 

said  he. 
"  Me  ?  —  but  I  cared  not  for  it.     0  par- 
don me, 
I  seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself." 
"Take  it  "  she  added  sweetly  "  tho'  his 

gift ; 
For  I  am  more  ungi-acious  ev'n  than  you, 
I  care  not  for  it  either"  ;  and  he  said 


"Why  then  I  love  it'   :  but  Sir  Aylmei 

past. 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing  he 

heard. 

The  next  day  came  a  neighbor.   Blue^ 

and  reds 
They  talk'd  of  :  blues  were  sure  of  it,  he 

thought  : 
Then  of  the  latest  fox  —  where  started  — 

kiU'd 
Li  such  a  bottom  :  "  Peter  had  the  brush, 
MyPeter,first"  :  and  did  Sir  Aj'lmer  know 
That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had  been 

caught  ? 
Tlien  made  his  jileasure  echo,  hand  to 

hand. 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 
Between  his  palms   a  moment  up   and 

down  — 
"The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were 

warm  upon  him  ; 
We  have  him  now  "  :  and  had  Sir  Ayl- 

nier  heard  — 
Nay,  but  lie  must  —  the  land  was  ring- 
ing of  it  — 
This  blacksmith -border  marriage  —  one 

they  knew  — 
Raw  from  the  lairsery  —  who  could  trust 

a  child  ? 
That  cursed  France  with  lier  egalities  I 
And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 
Witli  nearing  chair  and  lower'd  accent) 

think  — 
For  people  talk'd  —  that  it  was  wholly 

wise 
To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 
So   freely   with    his   daughter  ?    people 

talk'd  — 
The  boy  might  get  a  notion  into  him  ; 
The  girl  might  be  entangled  eie  slie  knew. 
Sir   Aylmer    Aylmer    slowly   stiffening 

spoke  : 
"The  girl  and  boy.  Sir,  know  their  dif- 
ferences !  " 
"  Good  "  said  his  fiiend  "  but  watch  ! '' 

and  he  "enough. 
More  than  enough,   Sir  !      I  can  guard 

my  own." 
They   parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer   Aylmer 

watch' d. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the  house 
Had   fallen  first,   was  Edith  that  same 

night  ; 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha's  daughter,  a  rough 

piece 


AYT.MERS   FIELD. 


375 


Of  early  rigid  color,  under  which 
Withdrawing  hy  the  counter  (U)or  to  that 
Which  Leolin  open'd,  she  cast  back  upon 

him 
A  piteous  glance,  and  vanish'd.  lie,  asone 
Caught  in  a  burst  of  unexpected  storm, 
And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets, 
Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  either  side  thehearth,  indignant ;  her. 
Cooling  her  false  check  with  a  featherfan, 
Him  glaring,  by   his   own   stale   devil 

spurr'd. 
And,  like  a  beast  hard-ridden,  breathing 

hard. 
"Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base, 
Presumptuous  !  trusted  as  he  was  with 

her, 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their 

lands, 
The  last  remaining  pillar  of  tlu-ir  house, 
Theonetransmitter  of  their  ancient  name, 
Their   child."      "Our   child!"     "Our 

heiress  !  "   "  Ours  !  "  for  still. 
Like  echoes  from  beyond  a  hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.     Last  he  said 
"  Boy,  mark  me  !  for  your  fortunes  are 

to  make. 
I  swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of 

mine. 
Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on 

her, 

Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  herself, 

Swerve  from  her  duty  toherself  and  us  — 

Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem'd  impossible, 

'Far  as  we  track  ourselves —  I  sa}-  that 

this  — 
Else  I  withdraw  favor  and  countenance 
From  you  and  yours  for  ever  —  shall  you 

do. 
Sir,  when  you  see  her  —  but  you  shall 

not  see  her  — 
No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but 

me  : 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken 

with  me, 
And  after  look'd  into  yourself,  you  find 
That  you   meant   nothing  —  as   indeed 

you  know 
That  you  meant  nothing.   Such  a  match 

as  this  ! 
Impossible,    prodigious  ! "     These   were 

words. 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 
Arguing   boundless   forbearance  :    after 

which. 
And  Leolin's  horror-stricken  answer,  "I 
So  foul  a  traitor  to  myself  and  her. 


Never  0  never,"  for  about  as  long 

As  the   wind-hover   hangs   in    balance, 

paused 
Sir  Aylmer  reddenmg  from   the   storm 

within. 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and 

crying 
"Boy,  should  I  find  you  by  my  doors 

again. 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like  a 

dog; 
Hence  !"  with  a  sudden  execration  drove 
The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose ; 
So,    stammering    "scoundrel"    out   of 

teeth  that  ground 
As  in  a  dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 
Ketreatcd  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 
FoUow'd,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a  hoary  face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth, 

but  now, 
Beneath  a  pale  and  unimpas.'^ion'd  moon, 
Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and  de- 

form'd. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful  eye 
That  watch'd  him,  till  he  heard  the  pon- 
derous door 
Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro' 

the  land. 
Went  Leolin;  then, his  passionsallin  flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 
Down    thro'    the    bright   lawns    to   his 

brother's  ran. 
And  foam'd  away  his  heart  at  Averill's 

ear  : 
Whom    Averill    solaced  as   he    might, 

amazed  : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father's, 

friend  : 
He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it 

long  ; 
He    must    have    known,    himself    had 

known  :  besides. 
He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 
Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west, 
Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be 

sold. 
Some   one,  he    thought,   had   slander'd 

Leolin  to  him. 
"Brother,  fori  have  loved  you  more  as  son 
Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you  :  I  myself — 
What  is  their  ])retty  saying  ?  jilted,  is  it  ? 
Jilted  I  was  :  I  say  it  for  your  peace. 
Pain'd,  and,  as  bearingin  myself  the  shame 
The  woman  should  have  borne,  humili- 
ated, 


376 


AYLMEE'S   FIELD. 


I  lived  for  years  a  stunted  sunless  life  ; 
Till  after  our  good  j^arents  past  away 
Watching  your  growth,  I  seem'd  again 

to  grow. 
Leolin,  I  almost  sin  in  envying  you  : 
The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 
Loves   you  :    I    know   her :    the    worst 

thought  she  has 
Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand  : 
She  must  prove  true  :  for,  brother,  where 

two  light 
The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love 

are  strength, 
And  you  are  happy  :  let  her  parents  be." 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon 
them  — 

Insolent,  brainless,  heartless  !  heiress, 
wealth. 

Their  wealth,  their  heiress  !  wealth 
enough  was  theirs 

For  twenty  matches.  Werehelord  of  this, 

Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should  marry 
on  it, 

And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and  him- 
self 

Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.  He  be- 
lieved 

This  filthy  marriage-hindei'ing  Mammon 
made 

The  harlot  of  the  cities  :  nature  crost 

Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 

That  saturate  soul  with  body.  Name, 
too  !  name. 

Their  ancient  name  !  they  might  be 
proud  ;  its  worth 

Was  being  Edith's.  Ah  how  pale  she 
had  look'd 

Darling,  to-night  !  they  must  have  rated 
her 

Beyond  all  tolerance.  These  old  pheas- 
ant-lords, 

These  partridge-breeders  of  a  thousand 
years, 

Who  had  mildew'd  in  their  thousands, 
doing  notliing 

Since  Egbert  —  why,  the  greater  their 
disgrace  ! 

Fall  back  upon  a  name  !  rest,  rot  in  that ! 

Not  kec]}  it  noble,  make  it  nobler  ?  fools, 

With  such  a  vantage-ground  for  noble- 
ness ! 

He  had  known  a  man,  a  quintessence  of 
man. 

The  life  of  all  —  who  madly  loved  — and 
he, 

Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father-fools. 


Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end, 
He  would  not  do  it !  her  sweet  face  and 

faith 
Held  him  from  that  :  but  he  had  powers, 

he  knew  it  : 
Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a  name, 
Name,  fortune  too  :  the  world  should  ring 

of  him 
To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their 

graves  : 
Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would  he 

be  — 
"  0  brother,  I  am  grieved  to  learn  your 

gi-ief— 
Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my 

say." 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own 

excess. 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own. 
He  laugh'd  ;  and  then  was  mute  ;   but 

presently 
Wept  like  a  storm  :  and  honest  Averill 

seeing 
How  low  his  brother's  mood  had  fallen, 

fetch' d 
His  richest  beeswing  from  a  binn  reserved 
For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red, 

and  told 
The  vintage  ^ — when  this  Aylmer  came 

of  age  — 
Then  drank  and  past  it ;  till  at  length 

the  two, 
Tho'  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for 

men. 
After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Yet  once  by  night   again  the  lovers 

met, 
A  perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darken'd  all  the  northward  of  her 

Hall. 
Him,  to  her  meek   and  modest   boson?. 

prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alterher; 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go, 
Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
In  such  a  sunlight  of  prosperity 
He  should  not  be  rejected.     "Write  to 

me  ! 
They  loved  me,  and  because  I  love  their 

child 
They  hate  me  :  there  is  war  between  us, 

dear, 


lYLMERS  field. 


377 


Which  breaks  all   bonds  but  ours  ;  we 

must  I'emain 
Sacred  to  one  another."   So  they  talk'd. 
Poor  children,  for  their  comfort :  the  wind 

blew  ; 
The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bitter 

tears, 
Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven, 

mixt 
Upon  their  faces,  as  tliey  kiss'd  eacli  other 
In  darkiR^ss,  and  above  them  roar'd  the 

pine. 

So  Leolin  went  ;  and  as  we  task  our- 
selves 
To  learn  a  language  known  but  smatter- 

In  phrases  here  and  thereat  random,  toil'd 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law. 
That  codcless  myriad  of  precedent. 
That  wilderness  of  single  instances. 
Thro'  which  a  few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led. 
May  beat  a  pathway  out  to  wealth  and 

fame. 
The  jests,  that  flash'd  about  the  pleader's 

room. 
Lightning  of  tlie   hour,   the   pun,   the 

scunilous  tale,  — 
Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades 

deep 
In  other  scandals  that  havelived  anddied, 
And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall 

die  — 
Weredeadtohimalready  ;  bent  as  he  was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in 

hopes, 
And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he. 
Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine,  and  exercise. 
Except  when  for  a  breathing-while  at  eve. 
Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  liour,  he  ran 
Beside  the  river-bank  :  and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands 

of  power 
Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts 

of  men 
Seem'd  hai'der  too  ;  but  the  soft  river- 
breeze, 
Which  fann'd  the  gardens  of  that  rival 

rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a  heart  remembering 
His  former   talks   with  Edith,  on   him 

breathed 
Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro, 
After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with  air. 
Then  to  his  books   again.     My  lady's 

cousin, 
Half-sickening  of  his  pension'd  afternoon, 


Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or  twice, 
Kan  a  Malayan  muck  against  the  times. 
Had  golden   liopes  for   France   and  all 

mankind, 
Answer'd  all  queries  touching  those  at 

home 
With  a  heaved  shoulder  ami  a  saucy  smile. 
And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the  world. 
And  air'd  him  there  :  his  nearer  friend 

would  say 
' '  Screw  not  the  chord  too  sharply  lest  it 

snap." 
Then  left  alone  he  pluck'd  herdagger  forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept 

it  warm. 
Kissing  his  vows  iipon  it  like  a  knight. 
And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk'd  of 

him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise  : 
For  heart,  1  think,  help'd  head  :  her  let- 
ters too, 
Tlio'  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  tnusic,  written  as  she  found 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch'd, 
Charm'd  him  thro'  every  labyrinth  till 

he  saw 
Anend,  ahope,  alight breakingupon him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh. 
Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued  them- 
selves 
To  sell  her,  those  gootl  parents,  for  her 

good. 
Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or  wealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they 

lured 
Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 
So  month  by  month  the  noise  about  their 

doors, 
And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets, 

made 
The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.     All  in  vain. 
Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  WToth,  return'd 
Leolin's  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o'er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 
With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 
A  mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale, 
And  laughter  to  their  lords  :  but  those 

at  home. 
As  hunters  round  a  hunted  creature  draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  the 

death, 
Narrow'd  her  goings  out  and  comings  in  ; 
Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 


378 


AYLMER'S   FIELD. 


Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 

farms, 
Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the  poor 
They  barr'd  her  :   yet  she  bore  it  :  yet 

her  cheek 
Kept  color  :  wondrous  !  but,  0  mystery  ! 
What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that  old 

oaK, 
So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a  part 
Falling  had   let  appear   the   brand   of 

John  — 
Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a  tree, 

but  now 
The  broken  base  of  a  black  tower,  a  cave 
Of  touchwood,  with  a  single  flourishing 

spray. 
There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
Rakingin  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 
Found  for  himself  a  bitter  treasure-trove ; 
Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and 

read 
"Writhing  a  letter  from  his  child,  for  which 
Came  at  the  moment  Leolin's  emissary, 
A  crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn'd  to  fly. 
But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  halter 

gave 
To  him  that  fluster'd  his  poor  parish  wits 
The  letter  which  he  brought,  and  swore 

besides 
To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 
Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray'd  ; 

and  then. 
Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him, 

went 
Hating  his  o\^^l  lean  heart  and  miserable. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a  despot 

dream 
The  father  panting  woke,  and  oft,  as  dawn 
Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms. 
Sweeping  the  frothfly  from  the   fescue 

brash'd 
Thro'  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treas- 
ure-trove, 
Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady,  — 

who  made 
A  downward  crescent  of  her  minion  mouth, 
Listless  in  all  despondence, — read;  and 

tore. 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol'd  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent ;  and 

burnt. 
Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied, 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks 

of  scorn 
In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter'd  all  over  the  vocabulary 


Of  such  a  love  as  like  a  chidden  child. 
After  much  wailing,  hush'd  itself  at  last 
Hopeless  of  answer  :   then  tho'  Averill 

wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain 

himself  — 
All  would  be  well — the  lover  heeded  rot. 
But  passionately  restless  came  and  went, 
Andrustlingonceatnightabout  the  place, 
There  by  a  keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt. 
Raging  return'd  :  nor  was  it  well  for  her 
Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of 

pines, 
Watch'd  even  there  ;  and  one  was  set  to 

watch 
The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aj^lmer  watch'd 

them  all. 
Yet  bitterer  from   his   readings  :   once 

indeed, 
Warm'd  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride 

in  her. 
She  look'd  so  sweet,  he  kiss'd  her  tenderly 
Not  knowing  what  possess'd  him  :  that 

one  kiss 
Was  Leolin's  one  strong  rival  upon  earth ; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow'd  suit, 
Seem'd  hope's  returning  rose  :  and  then 

ensued 
A  IMartin's  summer  of  his  faded  love, 
Or  ordeal  by  kindness  ;  after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a  sneer ; 
The  mother  flow'd  in  shallower  acrimo- 
nies : 
Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word : 
So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly 

lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to  spy 
The  weakness  of  a  people  or  a  house. 
Like  flies  that  haunt  a  wound,  or  deer, 

or  men, 
Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt — 
Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him  — found 

the  girl 
And  flung  her  down  upon  a  couch  of  fire. 
AVhere  careless  ofthe  household  faces  near. 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 
She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer, 

past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light :  may  soul 

to  soul 
Strike  thro'  a  finer  element  of  lier  own? 
So,  —  from  afar,  —  touch  as  at  once  ?  or 

why 


AYLMER'S   FIELD. 


379 


That   night,    that   moment,    when    she 

named  his  name. 
Did  the  keen  shriek  "yes  love,  yes  Edith, 

yes." 
Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers 

woke. 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep. 
With  a  weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and 

trembling, 
His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames, 
His  body  half  flung  forward  in  pursuit. 
And  his  long  arms  stretch'd  as  to  grasp 

a  tlyur  : 
Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the 

cry  ; 
And  being  much  befool  d  and  idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.     The  second  day. 
My  lady's  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 
A  breaker  of  tlie  bitter  news  from  home. 
Found  a  dead  man,  a  letter  edged  with 

death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave  Edith,  reddcn'd  with  no  bandit's 

blood  : 
' '  From  Edith  "  wasengraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon  his 

death. 
And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  be- 
lieved — 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not 

Time's 
Had  blasted  him  —  that  many  thousand 

days 
Were  dipt  by  liorror  from  his  term  of  life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death 
Scarce  toueh'd  her  thro'  that   nearness 

of  the  lirst, 
And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor  te.xts. 
Sent  to  the  harrow'd  brother,  prayinghim 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child. 
And  fixt  the  8abbath.    Darkly  that  day 

rose  : 
Autumn's  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded 

woods 
Was  all  the  life  of  it ;  for  hard  on  these, 
A  breathless  burden  of  low-folded  heavens 
Stifled  and  chill'd  at  once  :  but  every  roof 
Sent  out  a  listener  :  many  too  had  known 
Edith  amongthehandetsround,  andsiuce 
The  parents'  harshness  and  the  hapless 

loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  murmur'd, 

left 
Their   own  gray  tower,    or   plain-faced 

tabernacle, 


To  hear  him  ;  all  in  mourning  these, 
and  those 

With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 

Or  kerchief ;  while  the  church,  —  one 
night,  except 

For  greenish  glimmerings  thro'  the  lan- 
cets, —  made 

Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  whc 
tower'd 

Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either 
grave. 

Long  o'er  his   bent   brows    linger'd 

Averill, 
His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  lie  pluek'd  it  forth,  and  labor'd  thro' 
Hi;  brief  praver-prelude,  gave  the  verse 

"Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ! " 
But  lapseil  into  so  long  a  pause  again 
As  half  amazed  half  frighted  all  his  flock  : 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of 

grief 
Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash'd  his  angry 

heart 
Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one 

sea, 
Wiiiehiollingo'er  the  palaces  of  the  proud. 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living 

God  — 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a  purer 

world  — 
When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 

thunder,  wrought 
Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idolatries, 
Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of 

Heavens, 
And  worshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the 

Highest  ? 
"Gash  thyself,  pi-iest,   and  honor  thy 

brute  Baal, 
And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself. 
For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed 

thy  God. 
Then  came  a  Lord  in  no  wise  like  to  Baal. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.    Surely  now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Crown  thyseli,  worm,  and  worship  thine 

own  lusts  !  — 
No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to  — ■ 
Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flow- 
ing lawns, 


380 


aylmer's  field. 


And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow, 
And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 
In  such  a  shape  dost  thou  behold  thy  God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him ;  for 

thine 
Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a  hair 
Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die ; 
And  tho'  thou  numberest  with  the  fol- 
lowers 
Of  One  who  cried  '  leave  all  and  follow 

me.' 
Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about  thy 

feet, 
Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine 

ears, 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord 

from  Heaven, 
Bom  of  a  village  girl,  carpenter's  son. 
Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty 

God, 
Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the  two  ; 
Crueller  :  as  not  passing  thro'  the  fire 
Bodies,    but    souls  —  thy   children's  — 

thro'  the  smoke, 
The  blight  of  low  desires  —  darkening 

thine  own 
To  thine  own  likeness  ;  or  if  one  of  these, 
Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee. 
Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and 

fair  — 
Friends,  I  was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a  one 
By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sorrow 

for  her  — 
Fairer  than  Eachel  by  the  palmy  Avell, 
Fairer  than  Faith  among  the  fields  of  corn, 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  '  hail '  she 

seem'd. 
Who  entering  fiU'd  the  house  -tt-ith  sud- 
den light. 
For  so  mine  own  was  brighten'd  :  where 

indeed  ' 

The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 
Dawn'd   sometime   thro'  the  doorway  ? 

whose  the  babe 
Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap, 
Warm'd  at  her  bosom  ?     The  poor  child 

of  shame. 
The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared  for, 

leapt 
Togi'eet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart. 
As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known. 
In  gambols  ;  for  her  fresh  and  innocent 

eyes 
Had  such  a  star  of  morning  in  their  blue. 
That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 


Broke  into  nature's  music  when  they  saw 

her. 
Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious 

way 
Thro'  theseal'dear  to  which  a  louder  one 
Was  all  but  silence  —  free  of  alms  her 

hand  — 
The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-walls 

with  flowers 
Has  often  toil'd  to  clothe  your  little  ones : 
How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man's  brow 
Cool'd  it,  or  lai<l  his  feverish  pillow  smooth ! 
Had  you  one  sorrowand  she  shared  it  not  ? 
One  iDurden  and  she  would  not  lighten  it  ? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  ? 
Or  when  some  heat  of  difference  sparkled 

out. 
How  sweetly  would  she  glide   between 

your  wraths. 
And  steal  you  from  each  other  !  for  she 

walk'd 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of 

love. 
Who  still'd  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee  ! 
And  one  —  ofhim  I  was  not  bid  to  speak  — 
Was  always  with  her,  whom  you  also  knew. 
Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy  love. 
And  these  had  beeiitogetherfrom  thefirst ; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the 

last. 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  of'  ours,  when 

sorely  tried. 
May  wreck  itself  without  the  pilot's  guilt. 
Without  the  captain's  knowledge  :  hope 

Mith  me. 
Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  Avent  hence 

with  shame  ? 
Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  botli  of  these 
I  cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow'd  walls, 
'  My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate.'  " 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers  wept ; 

but  some. 
Sons  of  the  glebe,  \\\\X\  other  frowns  than 

those 
That  knit  themselvesfor  summer  .shadow, 

scowl'd 
At  their  great  lord.     He,  when  it  seem'd 

he  saw 
No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but 

fork'd 
Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his  head, 
Sat  anger-charm'd  from  sorrow,  soldier- 
like. 
Erect  :  but  when  the  preacher's  cadence 

flow'd 
Softening  thro'  all  the  gentle  attributes 


AYLMER  S   FIELD. 


381 


Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch'd 

his  face, 
Paled  at  a  sudden  twitch  of  his  iron  mouth  ; 
And  "  0  pray  God  that  he  hold  up  "  she 

thought 
"Or  surely   1  shall  shame  myself  and 
him." 

"  Nor  yours  the  blame  —  for  who  be- 
side your  hearths 
Can  take  herplace — if  echoingme  you  cry 
'  Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  ! ' 
But  thou,  0  thou  that  killest,  hadst  thou 

known, 
0  thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  under- 
stood 
The  things  belonging  ;:o  thy  peace  and 

ours  ! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  thatcalls 
Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  waste  'Re- 
pent '  ? 
Is  not  our  ovra  child  on  the  narrow  way, 
Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the 

broad 
Cries    '  come  up  hither, '  as   a  prophet 

to  us? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and 

rock  ? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 
No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 
Yes,  as  yourmoanings  witness,  and  myself 
Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 
Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  your 

prayers, 
Not  past  the   living   fount  of  pity   in 

Heaven. 
But  I  that  thought  myself  long-sufiering, 

meek. 
Exceeding  'poor  in    spirit'  —  how   the 

words 
Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves,  and 

mean 
Vileness,    we   are  grown   so  proud  —  I 

wish'd  my  voice 
A  rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 
To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro'  the  world — 
Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 
To  inflame  the  tribes  ;  but  there  —  out 

yonder  — •  earth 
Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell  —  0 

there 
The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry  — 
The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so  fast. 
They  cling  together  in  theghastlysack  — 
The  land  all  shambles — naked  marriages 
Flash  from  the  bridgo,  andever-murder'd 
Prance, 


By  shores  tliat  darken  with  the  gathering 

wolf, 
Runs  in  a  river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 
Is  this  a  time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 
Was  this  a  time  for  these  to  flaunt  their 

pride  ? 
May  Pharaoh's  darkness,  folds  as  dense 

as  those 
Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people's 

eyes 
Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great 

sin  from  all  ! 
Doubtless  oui'  narrow  world  must  canvass 

it: 

0  rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them. 
Who  thro'  their  own  desire  accomplish'd 

bring 
Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 

grave  — 
Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired 

to  break, 
Whichelse  had  link'd  theirrace  with  times 

to  come  — 
Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her  purity, 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter's 

good  — 
Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did, 

but  sat 
Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter's 

death  ! 
May  not  that  earthly  chastisementsuffice? 
Have  not  our  love   and  reverence   left 

them  bare  ? 
Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 
Will  there  be  children's  laughter  in  their 

hall 
For  ever  and  for  ever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a  light  thing 
That  I  their  guest,  their  host,  their  an- 
cient friend, 

1  made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race 
Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as  cried 
Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that  swore 
Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 
Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the 

Lord, 
And  left  their  memories  a  world's  curse 

—  '  Behold, 
Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate '  ? " 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook'd  no 

more  : 
Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorse« 

lessly, 
Her  crampt-up  sorrow  pain'd  her,  and  a 

sense 
Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 


382 


SEA   DREAMS. 


Then  their  eyes  vext  her  ;  for  on  entering 
He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat 

aside  — 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest —  she  herself 
Had  seen  to  that  :  fain  had  she  closed 

them  now, 
Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near'd 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when  she 

laid, 
Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he  veil'd 
His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once,  as 

falls 
A  creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The   woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and 

swoon'd. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the  nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre 

face 
Seam'd  with   the  shallow  cares  of  fifty 

years  : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape 

round 
Ev'n  to  his  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
"Who  peer'dat  him  so  keenly,  follow'd  out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel'd,  as  a  footsore  ox  in  crowded  ways 
Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his  death, 
Uupitied  ;  for  he  groped  as  blind,  and 

seem'd 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch'd  the  door ; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  whei-e  his  chariot 

stood. 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erectagain. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 
Save  under  pall  with  bearers.     In  one 

month. 
Thro'  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours. 
The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her 

child  ; 
And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his  house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the 

change, 
And  those  iixt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 
Staring  for  ever  from  their  gilded  walls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own 

head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall ;  the  man  became 
Imbecile  ;  his  one  word  was  "desolate  " ; 
Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  was 

he; 
But   when   the  second  Christmas  came, 

escaped 
His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he  felt. 
To  find  a  deeper  in  the  narrow  gloom 
By  wife  and  child  ;  nor  wanted  at  his  end 


The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 
At  golden  thresholds  ;  nor  from  tendei 

hearts, 
And  those  who  sorrow'd  o'er  a  vanish'd 

race. 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant's  grave. 
Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken 

down. 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell'd  into 

farms  ; 
And  where  the  two  contrived  their  daugh- 
ter's good. 
Lies  the  hawk's  cast,  the  mole  has  made 

his  run. 
The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain 

bores, 
The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless  face, 
The   slow-worm    creeps,    and   the  thin 

weasel  there 
Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A  CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred  ; 
His   wife,  an  unknown   artist's  orphan 

child  — 
One  babe  was  theirs,  a  Margaret,  three 

years  old  : 
They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander 

eye 
Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom. 
Came,  with  a  month's  leave  given  them, 

to  the  sea  : 
For  which  hisgains  were  dock'd,  howevei 

small : 
Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  work  ; 

besides. 
Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for  the 

man 
Had  risk'd  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift. 
Trembled  in  perilous  jjlaces  o'er  a  deep  : 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credu- 

lousness, 
And  th  at  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured 

him,  rogiie. 
To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian 

mine. 
Now    seaward-bound    for    health   they 

gain'd  a  coast, 
All  sand  and  cliff  and   deep-inrunning 

cave, 
At  close  of  day  ;  slept,  woke,  and  went 

the  next, 
The   Sabbath,    pious  variers  from   the 

church, 


SEA   DREAMS. 


383 


To  chapel ;  where  a  heated  pulpiteer, 
Not  preacliing  simple  Christ  to  simple 

men, 
Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  fulmi- 
nated 
Against  the  scarlet  woman  and  her  creed  : 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and 

shriek 'd 
"Thus,  thus  with  violence,"  ev'n  as  if 

he  held 
The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 
Were   that  great  Angel  ;     "Tiius   with 

violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea  ; 
Then   comes   the    close."     The   gentle- 
hearted  wife 
Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a  world  ; 
He  at  ills  own  :  but  when  the  wordy  storm 
Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced 

the  shore, 
Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves, 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce 

believed 
(The  sootHake  of  so  many  a  summer  still 
Clung  to  tlieir  fancies)   that  they  saw, 

the  sea. 
So  now  on  sand  they  walk'd,  and  now 

on  cliti; 
Lingeringabout  the  thymy  promontories. 
Till  all  the  sails    were  darken'd  in  the 

west. 
And  rosed  in  the  east :  then  homeward 

and  to  bed  : 
Where  she,  who  kept  a  tender  Christian 

hope 
Haunting  a  holy  text,  and  still  to  that 
Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 
"Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your 

wrath," 
Said,  "Love,  forgive  him"  :  but  he  did 

not  speak  ; 
And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  wife, 
Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for 

all, 
And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men. 
And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their 

feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a  full 
tide  . 

Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the 
foremost  rocks 

Touching,  upjetted  in  spirts  of  wild  sea- 
smoke, 

And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam, 
and  fell 

In  vast  sea-cataracts  —  ever  and  anon 


Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the 
I  cliffs 

Heard  thro'  the  living  roar.    At  this  the 
1  babe. 

Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them,  wail'd 

and  woke 
The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 
I  "  A  wreck,  a  wreck  !  "  then  turn'd,  and 
groaning  said, 

' '  Forgive  !    How  many  will  say,  '  for- 
give,' and  lind 
j  A  sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
I  To  hate  a  little  longer  !     Xo  ;  the  sin 

That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  for- 
I  give, 

I  Hypocrisy,  I  saw  it  in  him  at  once. 
Isitsotrue  that  second  thoughtsare  best  ? 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a  riper 

first  ? 
Too  ripe,  too  late  !  they  come  too  late  for 

use. 
Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and 

beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their 

foes  : 
And  such  a  sense,  when  first  I  fronted 

him, 
Said,  '  trust  him  not '  ;  but  after,  when  I 

came 
To  know  him  more,  I  lost  it,  knew  him 

less  ; 
Fought  with  what  seem'd  my  own  un- 

charity  ; 
Sat  at  his  table  ;  drank  his  costly  wines  ; 
Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his 

talk; 
Went  further,  fool  !  and  trusted  him  with 

all. 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a  dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork  :  there  is  no  such 

mine. 
None  ;  butagulfof  ruin,  swallowinggold, 
Not  making.     Ruin'd  !  ruin'd  !  the  sea 

roars 
Ruin  :  a  fearful  night ! " 

"Not  feai-ful ;  fair," 
Said   the  good  wife,    "if  every  star  in 

heaven 
Can  make  it  fair  :  you  do  but  hear  the 

tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams  ?  " 

"  0  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  dream'd 
Of  such  a  tide  swelling  toward  the  land, 
And  I  from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 


384 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Swept  with  it  to  tlie  shore,  and  enter'd 

one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath  the 

cliffs. 
1  thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless 

deep 
Bore  through  the  cave,  and  I  was  heaved 

upon  it 
In  darkness  :  tlien  I  saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.      'What  a  .world,'  I 

thought, 
'  To  live  in  ! '  but  in  moving  on  I  found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave, 
Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  be- 
yond : 
And  near  the  light  a  giant  woman  sat. 
All  over  earthy,  like  a  piece  of  earth, 
A  pickaxe  in  her  hand  :  then  out  I  slipt 
Into  a  land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that 

sings  : 
And  here  the  night  -  light  flickering  in 

my  eyes 
Awoke  me." 

"That  was  then  your  dream,"  shesaid, 
"Not  sad,  but  sweet." 

"So  sweet,  I  lay,"  said  he, 
"And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the 

strea.m 
In  fancy,  till  I  slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision  ;  for  1  dream'dthat  still 
The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on, 
And  that  the  woman  walk'd  upon  the 

brink  : 
I  wonder'd  at  her  strength,  and  ask'd  her 

of  it: 
'It  came,'  she  said,  'by  working  in  the 

mines '  : 
0  then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I  thought ; 
And  ask'd  ;  but  not  a  word  ;  she  shook 

her  head. 
And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased. 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder  ;  and  we 

reach' d 
A  mountain,   like  a  wall  of  burrs  and 

thorns ; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep 

hill 
Trod  out  a  path  :  I  foUow'd  ;  and  at  top 
She  pointed  seaward  :    there  a  fleet  of 

glass, 
That  seem'd  a  fleet  of  jewels  under  me. 
Sailing  along  before  a  gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder, 

past 


In  sunshine  :  right  across  its  track  there 

lay, 
Down  in  the  water,  a  long  reef  of  gold. 
Or  what  seem'd  gold  :  and  I  was  glad  at 

first 
To  think  that  in  our  often-ransack'  d  world 
Still  so  much  gold  was  left ;  and  tlien  I 

fear'd 
Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter 

on  it. 
And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them 

off; 
An  idle  signal,  for  the  biittle  fleet 
(I  thought  I  could  have  died  to  save  it) 

near'd, 
Touch'd,  clink'd,  and  clash'd,  and  van- 

ish'd,  and  I  woke, 
I  heard  the  clash  so  clearly.     Now  I  see 
My  dream  was  Life  ;  the  woman  honest 

Work; 
And  my  poor  venture  but  a  fleet  of  glass 
Wreck'd  on  a  reef  of  Wsionary  gold." 

"Nay,"  said  the  kindly  wife  to  com- 
fort him, 

"  You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down 
and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret's  medicine 
in  it  ; 

And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and  broke 
your  dream  : 

A  trifle  makes  a  dream,  a  trifle  breaks." 

"No  trifle,"  groan'd  the  husband; 
' '  yesterday 

I  met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and 
ask'd 

That  which  I  ask'd  the  woman  in  my 
dream. 

Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.  '  Show  me 
the  books  ! ' 

He  dodged  me  witli  a  long  and  loose  ac- 
count. 

'  The  books,  the  books  ! '  but  he,  he  could 
not  wait. 

Bound  on  a  matter  he  of  life  and  death  : 

When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven 
and  ten) 

Were  open'd,  I  should  find  he  meant  me 
well ; 

And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 

All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 

That  makes  the  widow  lean.  '  My  dear- 
est friend. 

Have  faith,  have  faith  !  We  live  by 
faith,'  said  he  ; 

'  And  all  things  work  togetherfor  thegood 


SEA   DREAMS. 


885 


Of  those '  —  it  makes  me  sick  to  quote 

him  —  last 
Giipt  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God-bless- 

you  went. 
I  stood  like  one  that  had  received  a  blow  : 
I  found  a  hard  friend  ill  liisloose  accounts, 
A  loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his  hand, 
A  curse  in  his  God-bless-you  :  then  my 

eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far 

away. 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd. 
Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back. 
And  scoundrel    in   the  supple  -  sliding 

knee." 

"  Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul  ?"  said 

the  good  wife  ; 
"So  are  we  all  :   but  do  not  call  him, 

love. 
Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and  proved, 

forgive. 
His  gain  is  loss  ;  for  he  that  wrongs  his 

friend 
Wrongs  himself  more,andevcrhearsabout 
A  silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast. 
Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  hiniseir 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  coiideninM  : 
And  that  drags  down  his  life  :  then  comes 

what  conies 
Hereafter  :andlienieant,hesaidhemeaiKt, 
Pel  haps  he  meant,  or  purtlv  niean-t,  you 

well." 

*' '  With  all  his   conscience  and   one 

eye  askew '  — 
Love,  let  me  (piote  these  lines,  that  you 

may  learn 
A  man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself. 
Too  often,  in  that  silent  court  of  yours  — 
'  With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 

askew. 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for  true  ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart 

was  dry, 
Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round  his 

eye; 
Who,  never  naming  God  except  for  gain. 
So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain  ; 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross 

his  tool. 
And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe  and 

fool; 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he 

forged, 
Aiitl  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he 

gorged  ; 


And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o'er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best. 
Dropping  the  too  rough  H  in  Hell  and 

Heaven, 
To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself 

had  thriven.' 
How  like  you  this  old  satire  ? " 

"  Nay,"  she  said, 
"  I  loathe  it :  he  had  never  kindly  heart 
Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind, 
Who  first  wrote  satire,  with  no  pity  in  it. 
But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I  hadone 
That  altogether  went  to  music  ?  Still 
It  awed  me." 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream'd 
Of  that  same  coast. 

"  —  But  round  the  North,  a  light, 
A  belt,  it  seem'd,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay, 
And  ever  in  it  a  low  musical  note 
Swell'd  up  and  died  ;  and,  as  it  swell'd, 

a  ridge 
Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when 

the  note 
Had  reach'd  a  thunderous  fulness,  on 

those  cliffs 
Broke,  raixt  with  awful  light  (the  same 

as  that 
Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  .saw 
That  all  tlio.se  lines  of  clitfs  were  cliffs 

no  more, 
But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age, 
Grave,  Horid,  stern,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
One  after  one  :  and  then  the  great  ridge 

drew, 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back, 
And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell'd  agaiu 
Slowly  to  music  :  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder  fell ; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin 

left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clustere 

round, 
Some  crying,  *  Set  them  up  !  they  shall 

not  fall  ! ' 
And  others  '  Let  them  lie,  for  they  have 

fall'n.' 
And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled  :  and 

she  gi'ieved 
In   her   strange   dream,   she   knew  not 

why,  to  find 
Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of  tune 
With  that  sweet  note  ;  and  ever  as  their 

shrieks 


386 


SEA  DREAMS. 


Eanhighestupthe  gamut,  that  great  wave 
Returning,  while  none  mark'd  it,  on  the 

crowd 
Broke,    mixt    with    awful    light,     and 

show'd  tlieir  ej'es 
Glaring,  and  passionate  looks,  and  swept 

away 
The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men  of 

stone. 
To  the  waste  deeps  together. 

"Then  1  fixt 
My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images, 
Both  crown'd  with  stars  and  high  among 

t -16  Stars,  — 
The  Virgin  I\Iother  standing  with  her 

child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster- 
fronts  — 
Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a  cry 
Which  mIxt  with  little  Margaret's,  and 

I  woke. 
And  my  dream  awed  me  .  —  well  —  but 

what  are  dreams  ? 
Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a 

glass. 
And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a  child. " 

"Child?   No!"   said  he,   "but  this 

tide's  roar,  and  his. 
Our  Boanerges  with  his  threats  of  doom. 
And  loud-lung'd  Antibabylonianisms 
(Altho'  I  grant  but  little  music  there) 
Went  both  to  make  your  dream  :  but  if 

there  were 
A  music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries. 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream'd 

about. 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far 

too  like 
The  discords  dear  to  tlie  musician.  No  — 
One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar   all   the 

hymns  of  heaven  : 
True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil  ! " 

' '  '  True '  indeed  ! 
One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 
Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on 

the  shore  ; 
While  you  were  running  down  the  sands, 

and  made 
The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow 

flap. 
Good  man,  to   please   the   child.     She 

brought  strange  news. 


Why  were  you  silent  when  f  spoke  to- 
night ? 
I  had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving  him 
Before  3'ou  knew.     We  imi^t  forgive  the 
dead." 

"Dead  !  who  is  dead  ? " 

' '  The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A  little  after  you  had  i)arted  with  him, 
He  suddenly dropt  deadof  heart-disease." 

' '  Dead  ?  he  ?  of  heart-disease  ?  what 
heait  had  he 
To  die  of  ?  dead  !  " 

"Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A  devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too, 
And  if  he  did  that  wrong  you  charge 

him  with. 
His  angel  broke  his  heart.      But  your 

lough  voice 
(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the  child 

again. 
Sleej),  little  birdie,  sleep !  will  she  not  sleep 
Without  her  '  little  birdie '  ?  well  then, 

sleep, 
And  1  will  sing  you  '  birdie.'  " 

Saying  this. 
The  woman  half  turn'd  round  from  him 

she  loved. 
Left  him  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro' 

the  night 
Her  other,  found  (for  it  was  close  beside) 
Andhalfeml)raced  the  basket  cradle-head 
With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the  pliant 

bough 
That  moving  move.-<  the  nest  and  nest' 

ling,  .sway'd 
The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  nie  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer. 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer. 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie. 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleeji  a  little  longer. 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 


THE   GRANDMOTHER, 


387 


If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

"She  sleeps :  let  us  too,  let  all  evil,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps  —  another  sleep  than  ours. 
He  can  do  uo  more  wrong  :  forgive  him, 

dear, 
And  I  shall  sleep  the  sounder  ! " 

Then  the  man, 
'*  His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to 

come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be 

sound  : 
(  do  forgive  him  ! " 

"Thanks,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,"  and 
they  slept. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


An'd  Willy,  my  eldest-bom,  is  gone,  you 

saj-,  little  Anni'  ? 
Ruddy,  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs, 

he  looks  like  a  man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written  :  she  never 

was  over-wise. 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy  :  he  would  n't 

take  my  advice. 


For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not 

the  man  to  save. 
Had  n't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank 

himself  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty  !  but  I  was 

against  it  for  one. 
Eh  !  —  but  he  would  n't  hear  me  —  and 

Willy,  you  Siiy.  is  gone. 


Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-bom,  the 

flower  of  the  flock  ; 
Kever  a  man  could  fling  him  :  for  Willy 

stood  like  a  rock. 
"  Here  's  a  leg  for  a  babe  of  a  week  ! "  says 

doctor ;  and  he  would  be  bound, 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty 

parishes  round. 


Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his 
legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue ! 


I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him  :  I 
wonder  he  went  so  young. 

I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  :  1  have  not 
long  to  stay  ; 

Perhaps  1  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for 
he  lived  far  away. 


Wliy  do  you  look  at  me,   Annie  ?  you 

think  1  urn  hard  and  cold  ; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me 

I  am  so  old  : 
I  cannot  weep  lor  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep 

for  the  rest ; 
Only  at  your  am,  Annie,  I  could  have 

wept  with  the  best. 


For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I   had  with 

your  father,  my  dear, 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me 

manv  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie  :  it  cost 

me  a  world  of  woe. 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy 

years  ago. 


For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  pome  to  the 

place,  and  1  knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in   her  time  ;   I 

knew,  but  1  would  not  tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me, 

the  base  little  liar ! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fire  as  you  know,  my 

dear,  the  tongue  is  a  fire. 


And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that 

v/eek,  and  he  said  likewise, 
That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever 

the  blackest  of  lies. 
That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met 

and  fought  with  outright. 
But  <i  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder 

matter  to  fight. 


And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm 

for  a  week  and  a  day  ; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it 

was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what 

Jenny  had  been ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never 

make  one's  self  clean. 


388 


THE   GRAlfDMOTHER. 


The  Grandmother. 


And 


T  cried  myself  wellnigli  Mind,  and 

all  of  an  evening  late 
I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and 

stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 
The  moon  like"  a  rick  on  fire  was  rising 

over  the  dale, 
And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  hush  beside 

me  chin-upt  the  nightingale. 


All  of  a  sudden  he  .stopt  :  there  past  by 

the  gate  of  the  fai-m, 
Willy, — he  did  n't  see  me,  —and  Jenny 

hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  1  started,  and  spoke  I 

scarce  knew  how  ; 
kh,  there's  no  fool  like  the  old  one  — 

it  makes  me  angry  now. 


"Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd 
the  thing  that  he  meant ; 

Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking 
courtesy  and  went. 

And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part :  in  a  hundred 
years  it  '11  all  be  the  same, 


You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love 
not  my  good  name." 


And  he  tum'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all 

wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine  : 
"Sweetheart,    1  love  you  so  well  that 

your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what   do  I  care  for  Jane,  let   her 

speak  of  you  well  or  ill  ; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand  :  we  too  shall 

be  happy  still." 


"Marry  you,  "Willy!"  said  I,  "butl 
needs  mu.st  speak  my  mind. 

And  I  fear  you  '11  listen  to  tales,  be  jeal- 
ous and  hard  and  unkind." 

But  he  turn'd  andclasptme  in  his  arms, 
and  answer'd,    *'  No,  love,  no  "  ; 

Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy 
years  ago. 


So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded  :  I  wore  a 
lilac  gown  ; 


THE  GRANDMOTHEIt. 


389 


And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he 
gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 

But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead 
before  he  was  born, 

Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie, 
flower  and  thorn. 


That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  T 

thought  of  death. 
There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never 

had  drawn  a  breath. 
I  had  not  wept,  little  Anne,  not  since  I 

had  been  a  wife  ; 
But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the 

babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 


His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if 

with  anger  or  pain  : 
I  look'd   at   the  still    little    boily— his 

trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 
For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him 

another  morn  : 
But  I  wept  like  a  cliild  for  the  child  that 

was  dead  before  he  was  bora. 

XTIII. 

But  he  cheer'd  nie,  my  good  man,  for  he 

seldom  said  me  nay  : 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he  ;  like  a  man, 

too,  would  have  his  way  : 
Never  jealous  — -  not  he  :  we  had  many  a 

happy  year  ; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep  — 

my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 


But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  Ood's  will  that 

I,  too,  then  could  have  died  : 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had 

slept  at  his  side. 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more, 

if  I  <lon't  forget  : 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they  're  all 

about  me  yet. 


Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who 
left  me  at  two, 

Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an 
Annie  like  you  : 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and 
goes  at  her  will. 

While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Char- 
lie ploughing  the  hill. 


And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too 

—  they  sing  to  their  team  : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant 

kind  of  a  dream. 
They  come  and    sit  by  my  chair,  they 

hover  about  my  bed  — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive 

or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I  know  for  a  trath,  there's  none 
of  them  left  alive  ; 

For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at 
sixty-five : 

And  "Willy,  my  eldest-born,  at  nigh  three- 
score and  ten  ; 

I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they 
'  're  elderly  men. 

XXIII. 

For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often 
I  grieve  ; 

1  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  fa- 
ther's farm  at  eve  : 

And  the  neighlwrs  come  and  laugh  and 
gossip,  and  .so  do  I  : 

I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things 
that  have  long  gone  by. 

XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins 
should  make  us  sad  : 

But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there 
is  Grace  to  be  had  ; 

And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all 
when  life  shall  cease  ; 

And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  mes- 
sage is  one  of  Peace. 


And  age  is  a  time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free 

from  pain. 
And  happy  has  been  my  life  ;  but  I  would 

not  live  it  again. 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that 's  all,  and 

long  for  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have 

wept  with  the  best. 


So  Willy  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest- 
born,  my  flower  ; 

But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  be  has 
but  gone  for  an  hour,  — 


390 


NORTHERN    FARMER. 


Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this 

room  into  the  next ; 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time 

have  I  to  be  vext  ? 

XXVII. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never 

was  over-wise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  :  thank  God 

that  1  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall 

have  past  away. 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now  :  you 

cannot  have  long  to  stay. 

NORTHERN   FARMER. 

OLD    STYLE. 
I. 

Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  lig- 

gin'  'ere  aloan  ? 
Noorse  '(  thoort  nowt  o'  a  noorse  :  whoy. 

Doctor's  abefin  an'  agoau  : 
Says  that  I  moant'a  naw  moor  aale  :  but 

I  beant  a  fool  : 
Git  ma  my  aale,  for  I  beant  a-gooin'  to 

break  my  rule. 

II. 
Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for   a  says 

what 's  nawways  true  : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the 

things  that  a  do. 
I  've   'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight 

sin'  I  bean  'ere. 
An'  I  've'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight 

for  foorty  year. 


Parson's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin 

'ere  o'  my  bed. 
"Theamoighty  'sa  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen, 

my  friend,"  a  said, 
A.n'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an  's  toithe  were 

due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  hond  ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  'm,  as  I  'a  done  by 

the  lond. 


Lam'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  1  'annot  sa 

mooch  to  lam. 
But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'boot  Bessy 

Marris's  bairn. 
Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire 

an'  choorch  an  staate, 
An'  1'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver 

agin  the  raate. 


An'  I  hallus  coomed  to 's  choorch  afoormoy 

Sally  wur  dead. 
An'  'eerd  un  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a 

buzzard-clock  *  ower  my  'ead. 
An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I 

thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said 

an'  1  coom'd  awaay. 

VI. 
Bessy  Marris's  bairn  !  thaknawsshe  laaid 

it  to  mea. 
Mowt  'a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  abad 

un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kej)  'in,  I  kep  'm,  my  lass,  tha 

mun  understond  ; 
I  done  mj'  duty  by  'm  as  I  'a  done  by 

the  lond. 


But  Parson  a  comes  an'  a  goos,  an'  a  says 

it  easy  an'  freea 
' '  The  amoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen, 

my  friend,"  says  'ea. 
I  weant  saiiy  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun 

said  it  in  'ajiste  : 
But  a  reads  wonn  sarmin  aweeak,  an'  I  'a 

stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste. 


D'ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw, 

naw,  tha  was  not  bom  then  ; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'eerd  'm 

mysen  ; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,  t  for  I  'eerd 

'm  aboot  an'  aboot. 
But   I  stubb'd  'm  oop  wi'  the   lot,  an' 

raaved  an'  rembled  'm  oot. 


Reaper's  it  \^-ur  ;  fo'  they  fun  'm  theer 

a-laaid  on  'is  faace 
Doon    i'  the   woild    'enemies  t   afoor  I 

coomed  to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  —  toaner  'ed  shot 

'm  as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noakswur 'ang'd  forit  oop  at  'soize  —  but 

git  ma  my  'aale. 


Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste  :  theer  warn't 

not  feead  for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt   at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an' 

loook  at  it  now  — 


t  Bittern. 


J  Anemones. 


NORTHERN   FARMER. 


391 


^Vam't  worth  nowt  a  haiicre,   an'  now 

theer  's  lots  o'  feeiid, 
Fourscoor  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it 

doou  iu  seead. 


Nobbiit  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an*  I  mean'd 

•  to  'a  stubb'd  it  at  fall, 

Done  it   ta-year   I    mean'd,  an'    runn'd 

plough  thruff  it  an'  all, 
If  godamoighty  au'  parson  'ud  noLbut  let 

ma  aloiin, 
MeiijWi'haate  oonderdhaacreo'  Squoire's, 

an'  lond  o'  my  oan. 


Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a 's  doing 
a-taakin'  o'  mea  ? 

I  beiint  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an' 
yonder  a  ])ea  ; 

An'  Squoire  'uU  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a' 
dear  a'  dear  ! 

And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  come  Mich- 
aelmas thutty  year. 


A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  nor  a 

'aapoth  o'  sense. 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taiien  young  Robins  —  a 

niver  mended  a  fence  : 
But  godamoighty  a  moost  taiike  mea  an' 

taiike  ma  now 
Wi'  'aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby 

hoalms  to  plough  ! 


Loook  'ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they 

seeas  ma  a  passin'  by. 
Says  to  thessen  naw  doubt  ' '  what  a  man 

a  bea  sewer-ly  !  " 
For  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire 

sin  fust  a  corned  to  the  'All ; 
I  done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an'  1  done 

my  duty  by  hall. 

XV. 

Squoire's  in  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reck- 
ons 'ull  'a  to  wroite, 

For  whoa 's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea 
thot  muddles  ma  quoit  ; 

Sartin-sewer  I  beii,  thot  a  weant  niver 
give  it  to  Joanes, 

Naw  nor  a  moiint  to  Robins  —  a  niver 
rembles  the  stoiins. 


But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap 

wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  niaazin'   the  blessed  fealds 

wi'  the  Divil's  oan  team. 
If  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  an'  loife  they 

says  is  sweet. 
But  if  I   mun  doy  I    mun    doy,   for  J 

couldn  abeiir  to  see  it. 


What  atta  stannin'  theer  for,  an'  doesn 

bring  ma  the  'aiile  ? 
Doctor's  a  toiittler,  lass,  au  a  's  hallus  i' 

the  owd  taale  ; 
I  weiiut  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a  knaws 

naw  moor  nor  a  floy  ; 
Git   ma   my  'aiile    I    tell    tha,  an'  if  I 

mun  doy  I  mun  doy. 

TITHONUS. 

TiiE  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and 

fall, 
The  vapors   weep   their  burden  to   the 

ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies 

beneatli. 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 
Me  only  cruel  immortality 
Consumes  :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  worhl, 
A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a 

dream 
The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of 


Alas  !    for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a 

man  — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice. 
Who  madest   him  thy  chosen,  that  he 

seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God! 
I  ask'd  thee,  "Give  me  immortality."  '- 
Then  didst  thou  gi-ant  mine  asking  with 

a  smile, 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they 

give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd 

their  wills. 
And  beatmedown  and  marr'dand  wasted 

me. 
And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me 

maini'd 
To  dwell  in  presence  of  inxmortal  youth, 


392 


THE  VOYAGE. 


Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 
And  all  1  was,  in  ashes.     Can  thy  love, 
Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now, 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide. 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill 

with  teai's 
To  hear  me  ?     Let  me  go  :  take  back  thy 

gift: 
Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 
Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 
vVhere  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet 

for  all  ? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart  ;  there 

comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was 

born. 
Once  more  the  old  raysterious  glimmer 

steals 
From   thy  pure   brows,  and   from  thy 

shoulders  pure, 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins   to   redden  thro'   the 

gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to 

mine. 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild 

team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke, 

arise. 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd 

manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answergiven 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy 

tears. 
And  makemetremble  lest  a  sayingleamt, 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be 

true  ? 
"  The  Gods  themselves  cannotrecall  their 

gilts." 

Ay  me  !  ay  me  !  with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,    and   with   what   other 

eyes 
I  used    to  watch  —  if  I    be   he    that 

watch' d  — 
The  lucid  outline  fomiing  round  thee  ; 

saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings  ; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt 

my  blood 


Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd 
all 

Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 

Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy- 
warm 

With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening 
buds 

Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  thai 
kiss'd 

Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and* 
sweet. 

Like  that  strange  song  1  heard  Apollo  sing, 

While  llion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East : 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled 

feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when 

the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the 

homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground  ; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my 

grave  : 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by 

morn  ; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts, 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


THE  VOYAGK 


We  left  behind  the  painted  buoy 

That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth  ; 
And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South  : 
How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 

On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 
We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round. 

And  we  might  sail  for  evermore. 


Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow, 

Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 
The  Lady's-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer'd  the 
gale. 
The  broad  seas  swell'd  to  meet  the  keel, 

And  swept  behind  :  so  quick  the  run, 
We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel. 

We  seem'd  to  sail  into  the  Sun  1 


IN   THE    VALLEY   OF   CAUTERETZ. 


393 


How  oft  we  saw  the  Sun  retire, 

Anil  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night, 
Fall  from  liis  Ocean-lane  of  fire, 

And  sleep  beneath  liis  pillar'd  light  ! 
How  oft  the  i)uri)le-skirted  robe 

Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn, 
4.S  thro'  the  plumber  of  the  globe 

Again  we  dash'd  into  the  dawn  ! 


New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 

Of  waters  lighten'd  into  view  ; 
They  climb'd  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 

Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 
Far  ran  the  naked  niuon  across 

The  liouseless  ocean's  heaving  field, 
Or  Hying  shone,  the  silver  boss 

Of  her  own  halo's  dusky  shield  ; 


The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes. 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen. 
We  past  iong  lines  of  Northern  capes 

And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 
We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 

Across  the  bouniUess  east  we  drove. 
Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  sweep 

The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 


By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 

Gloom'd  the  low  coast  and  (quivering 
brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 

Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 
By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 

Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast, 
And  hills  and  scarlet-mingletl  woods 

Glow'd  for  a  moment  as  we  past. 


0  hundred  shores  of  happy  climes. 

How  swiftly  stream'd  ye  by  the  bark  ! 
it  times  the  whole  sea  burn'd,  at  times 

With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark  ; 
At  times  a  carven  craft  would  shoot 

From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers, 
With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit, 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruit  nor  flowers. 

VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 

Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night, 
And  still  we  follow'd  where  she  led. 

In  hope  to  gain  upon  h^  flight. 


Her  face  was  evermore  unseen. 
And  fi.xt  upon  tiie  far  sea-line  ; 

But  eacli  man  murmur'd,  "0  my  Queen, 
1  follow  till  1  make  thee  mine." 


And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam'd 

Like  Fancy  made  of  gk.ldeii  air. 
Now  nearer  to  the  prow-  she  seem'd 

Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 
Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 

Like  Heavenly  Ho])e  she  erown'd  the 
sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed. 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 


And  only  one  among  us  —  him 

We    pleased    not  —  he    was    seldom 
pleased  : 
He  saw  not  far  :  Ins  eyes  were  dim  : 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 
"  A  ship  of  fools,"  he  shriek'd  in  spite, 

"A  ship  of  fools,"  he  sneer'd  and  wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 

He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 


And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl'd. 

Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  morn  ; 
We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world. 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn  ; 
For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease, 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the 
sail 
Across  the  whirlwind's  heart  of  peace, 

And  to  and  thro'  the  counter-gale  ? 


Again  to  colder  climes  we  came. 

For  still  we  follow'd  where  .she  led  : 
Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame, 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 
But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sound 

We  follow  that  which  flies  before  : 
We  know  the  merry  world  is  round, 

And  we  may  sail  for  evermore. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ, 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flash- 

est  white. 
Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening 

of  the  night. 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow. 


394 


THE  ISLET. 


I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thir- 
ty years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist 
that  rolls  away  ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky 
bed 

Thy  living  voice  to  ine  was  as  the  voice 
of  the  dead. 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and 
cave  and  tree. 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice 
to  me. 


THE  FLOWER. 

Once  in  a  golden  hour 
1  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 

Uj)  there  came  a  flower. 
The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower. 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light. 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall. 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 

Till  all  the  people  cried 
"Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable  : 
He  that  runs  niay  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now. 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough. 
And  some  are  ])Oor  indeed  ; 
And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place, 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly  slow- 
ly glides. 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 


And  fairer  she,  but  ah  now  soon  to  die! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  may 
cease. 
Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 

To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


THE  SAILOR-BOY. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope. 

Shot  o'er  the  seething  harbor-bar. 
And  reach'd  the  ship  and  caught  the 
rope. 

And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a  fierce  mei'maiden  cry, 

"0  boy,  tho'  thou  art  young  and  proud, 
I  see  the  jilace  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

"The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks. 
And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play." 

"Fool,"  he  answer' d,  "death  is  sure 
To  those  tliat  stay  and  those  that  roam, 

But  I  will  nevermore  endure 
To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

"  My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 
My  sisters  crying  '  Stay  for  shame ' ; 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck, 
They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to 
blame. 

"  God  help  me  !  save  I  take  my  pai"t 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A  devil  rises  in  my  heart, 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me." 


THE   ISLET. 

"Whither,  0  whither,  love,  shall  we  go, 
Forascoreofsweetlittlesummersorso  ? " 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said, 
On   the  day  that  follow'd  the   day  she 

was  wed, 
"  Wliither,  0  whither,  love,  shall  wego?" 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
Turn'd  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a  sudden  crash. 
Singing,  "  And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a  crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash, 
But  a  bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek'd. 
In  a  shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak'd, 
With  a  satin  sail  of  a  ruby  glow, 


THE   RINGLET. 


395 


loasweetlictleEdenon  earth  that  I  know, 
A  mcuntain  islet  pointed  and  peak'd  ; 
Waves  on  a  diamond  shingle  dash, 
Cataract  brooks  to  tlie  ocean  run, 
Fairily-delicate  palaces  sliine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  Wne, 
And  ovorstreum'd  and  silvery-streak'd 
With  many  a  rivulet  high  against  the  Sun 
The  facetsof  the  glorious  mountain  Hash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine." 

"  Thither,  0  thither,  love,  let  us  go." 

"  No,  no,  no  ! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  ray  dear. 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a  musical 

tliroat. 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a  single  note, 
That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear." 

"  Mock  me  not !  mock  me  not !  love,  let 
us  go." 

"No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on 

the  tree. 
And  a  storm  never  wakes  in  the  lonely  sea. 
And  a  worm  is  therein  the  lonely  wood, 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the 

blood, 
And  makes  it  a  sorrow  to  be." 


LITERARY  SQUABBLES. 

Ah  God  !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme 
That  shriek  and  sweat  in  pygmy  wars 
Before  the  stony  face  of  Time, 
And  look'd  at  by  the  silent  stars  : 

Wlio  hate  each  other  for  a  song. 
And  do  their  little  best  to  bite 
And  pinch  their  bretliren  in  the  throng, 
Aad  scratch  the  very  dead  for  spite  : 

And  strain  to  make  an  inch  of  room 
For  their  sweet  selves,  and  cannot  hear 
The  sullen  Lethe  rolling  doom 
On  them  and  theirs  and  all  things  here 

When  one  small  touch  of  Charity 
Could  lift  them  nearer  God-like  state 
Than  if  the  crowded  Orb  should  cry 
Like  those  who  cried  Diana  great  : 

And  I  too,  talk,  and  lose  the  touch 
I  talk  of.     Surely,  after  all. 
The  noblest  answer  unto  such 
Is  perfect  stillness  when  they  brawl. 


THE  RINGLET. 

' '  Your  ringlets,  your  ringlets, 

That  look  so  golden-gay, 
If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one. 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day. 
Then  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Will  turn  it  silver-gray  ; 
And  then  shall  1  know  it  is  all  true  gold 
To  tlame  and  sparkle  and  stream  asof  old. 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold. 

And  all  her  stars  decay." 
"Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  ; 
This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  1.  ' 

2. 
"  My  ringlet,  my  ringlet,  • 

That  art  so  golden-gay. 
Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 

Can  turn  thee  silver-gray  ; 
And  a  lad  may  wink,  and  a  girl  may  hint. 

Anil  a  fool  may  say  his  say  ; 
For  my  doubts  antl  fears  were  all  amiss. 
And  1  swear  henceforth  by  this  and  this, 
That  a  doubt  will  only  come  for  a  kiss. 

And  a  fear  to  be  kiss'd  away." 
"Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  1." 


0  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

I  kiss'd  you  night  and  day. 
And  Ringlet,  0  Kinglet, 

You  still  are  golden-gay, 
But  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray  : 
For  what  is  this  which  now  I  'm  told, 

1  that  took  you  for  true  gold. 

She  that  gave  you  's  bought  and  sold. 
Sold,  sold. 

2. 
0  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

She  blush'd  a  rosy  red. 
When  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head, 
And  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said, 
' '  Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  : 
If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I." 
0  fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 
You  golden  lie. 


3. 

0  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 

I  count  you  much  to  blame, 


396 


ODE. 


For  Kinglet,  0  Ringlet, 
You  put  me  much  to  shame, 

So  Ringlet,  0  Ringlet, 
I  doom  you  to  tlie  flame. 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I  learn, 

Has  given  all  my  faith  a  turn  ? 

Burn,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn. 
Burn,  burn. 


A  WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 

March  7,  1863. 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra  ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we, 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 

Alexandra ! 

"Welcome  her,   thunders  of  fort  and  of 

fleet! 
Welcome  her,   thundering  cheer  of  the 

street  ! 
Welcome  her,    all    things  youthful  and 

sweet, 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet  ! 
Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers  ! 
Make  music,  0  bird,  in  the  new-budded 

bowers  ! 
Blazon    your  mottoes    of  blessing  and 

prayer ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is 

ours  ! 
Warble,  0  bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare  ! 
Flags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers  ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare  ! 
Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 
Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air  ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire  ! 
Rush  to  the  roof,   sudden  rocket,   and 

higher 
Melt  into  stars  for  the  land's  desire  ! 
Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice, 
Roll  as  a  ground-swell  dasli'd  on  the  strand. 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the  land, 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land's  de- 
sire. 
The  sea-kings'  daughter  as  happy  as  fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a  blissful  heir, 
Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the  sea — 
0  joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the  throne, 
Come  to  us,  love  us  and  make  us  your 

own  : 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 
Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be. 
We  axe  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of 

thee, 

Alexajidra  ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OF 
THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHI- 
BITION. 

Uplift  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet, 
In  this  wide  hall  with  earth's  inven- 
tion stored. 
And  i)raise  th'  invisible  universal  Lordj 
Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations 
meet, 
Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have 
outpour'd 
Their   myriad   horns   of  plenty  at   our 
feet. 

0  silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn'd  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee, 
For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to 
thee! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine. 

And,  lo  !  the  long  laborious  miles 

Of  Palace  ;  lo  !  the  giant  aisles. 

Rich  in  model  and  design  ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry. 

Loom  and  wheel  and  engin'ry, 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine. 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine,  N 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine. 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a  feast 

Of  wonder,  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine  ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use, 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 

Brought  from  under  eveiy  star, 
Blown  from  over  every  main, 
And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

0  ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who 

reign. 
From  glowing  commerce  loose  her  latest 

chain. 
And  let   the   fair  white-winged  peace- 
maker fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky. 
And  mix  the   seasons  and  the  golden 

hours. 
Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all  men's 

good. 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood, 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed 

towers, 
And  ruling  by  obejdng  Nature's  powers, 
And  gathering  all  the  fniits  of  peace 

and  crown'd  with  all  her  flowers. 


BOADICEA. 


397 


DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  true  —  no  truer  Time 

himself 
Can  Drove  you,  t  ho' he  make  you  evermore 
Dearer  and  nearer,  as  tlie  rapid  of  life 
ShoUs  to  the  fall  —  take  this,  and  pray 

that  he. 
Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet  faith 

in  him. 
May  trust  himself ;  and  spite  of  praise 

and  scorn, 


As  one  who  feels  the  immeasurable  world, 
Attain  the  wise  inditierenee  of  the  wise  ; 
And    after    Autumn    past  —  if  left   to 

pass 
His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless  days  — 
Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  longest 

night, 
Wearing  his   wisdom  lightly,   like  the 

fruit 
Which  iu  our  winter  woodland  looks  a 

flower.  * 

•  The  fruit  of  the  Spindle-tree  (Euonymus  Eurofaus.) 


EXPERIMENTS. 


BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  siiore  of  Mona  those 

Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of 

the  Druid  and  Druidess, 
Far  in  the  East  IJoiidicea,  standing  loftily 

charioted. 
Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her 

in  lu-r  lierce  volubility, 
Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near 

the  colony  Camulodi'uie, 
Yell'dand  shriek'd  between  herdaughters 

o'er  a  wild  confederacy. 

"They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call 

us  Biitain's  barbarous  populaces. 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen, 

did  they  pity  me  sujtplicating  ? 
Shall  I  heed  them  in  their  anguish  ?  shall 

I  brook  to  be  supplicated  ? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Cori- 

tanian,  Trinobant  ! 
Must   their   ever-ravening  eagle's   beak 

and  talon  annihilate  us  ? 
Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it 

gorily  quivering  ? 
Bark  an  answer,  Britain's  raven  !  bark 

and  blacken  innumerable, 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make 

the  carcass  a  skeleton, 
Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolf  kin,  from 

the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it, 
Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten'd,  Tara- 

nis  be  propitiated. 
Lo  their  colony  half-defended  !  lo  their 

colony,  Camulodiine  ! 


There  the  hoi"de  of  Roman  robbers  mock 
"at  a  barbarous  adversaiy. 

There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a 
gluttonous  enii)eror-idiot. 

Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity  :  hear 
it.  Spirit  of  Cassivelaun  ! 

"  Hear  it,  Gods  !  the  Gods  have  heard 
it,  0  Icenian,  0  Coritanian  ! 

Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer'd, 
Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant. 

These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in 
miraculous  utterances, 

Thunder,  a  flying  fire  in  heaven,  a  mur- 
mur heard  aerially. 

Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending, 
moan  of  an  enemy  massacred. 

Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children, 
multitudinous  agonies. 

Bloodily  flow'd  the  Tamesa  rolling  phan- 
tom bodies  of  horses  and  men  ; 

Then  a  phantom  colony  smoulder'd  on 
the  refluent  estuary  ; 

Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  gid- 
dily tottering  — 

There  was  one  who  watcb'd  and  told  me 
—  down  their  statue  of  Victory  fell. 

Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo 
the  colony  Camulodune, 

Shall  we  teach  it  a  Roman  lesson  ?  shall 
we  care  to  be  pitiful  ? 

Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant  ?  shall 
we  dandle  it  amorously  ? 

"  Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear 
Coritanian,  Trinobant  ! 


398 


IN   QUANTITY. 


While  I  roved  about  the   forest,  long 

and  bitterly  meditating, 
There  I  heard  them  in  the  darkness,  at 

the  mystical  ceremony, 
Loosely  robed  in  iiying  raiment,  sang 

the  terrible  prophetesses. 
"'  Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle 

of  silvery  parapets  ! 
The'  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho' 

the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee. 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle, 

thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet  I 
Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine 

the  deeds  co  be  celebrated, 
Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,   light 

and  shadow  illimitable. 
Thine  the  lands  of  lastingsummer,  many- 
blossoming  Paradises, 
Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and 

thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 
So  they  ehanted  :  how  shall  Britain  light 

upon  auguries  hapjiier  '< 
So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and 

there  cometh  a  victory  now. 

"Hear  leenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear 
Coritanian,  Tiinobant ! 

Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the 
lover  of  liberty. 

Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured, 
me  they  lash'd  and  humiliated. 

Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine 
of  ruffian  violators  ! 

See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  mis- 
erable in  ignominy  ! 

Wlierefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by 
blood  to  be  satiated. 

Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  col- 
ony Camulodiine  ! 

There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted 
all  the- flourishing  territory, 

Thither  at  their  will  they  baled  the  yel- 
low-ringleted Britoness  — 

Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe, 
unexhausted,  inexorable. 

Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout 
Coritanian,  Trinobant, 

Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn 
to  hurry  precipitously 

Like  the  leaf  in  a  roaring  \\hirlwind,  like 
the  smoke  in  a  hurricane  whirl'd. 

Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the 
citj'  of  Cunobeline  ! 

There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald, 
there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay, 

Koliing  on  their  purple  couches  in  their 
tender  effeminacy. 


There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted  ; 

there — there — they  dwell  nomore. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  \he  palaces, 

break  the  works  of  the  statuary. 
Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter 

it,  hold  it  abominable. 
Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust 

and  voluptuousness. 
Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they 

lash'd  and  humiliated. 
Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash 

the  brains  of  the  little  one  out. 
Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my 

chargers,  trample  them  under  us." 

60  the  Queen  Boiidicea,  standing  loftily 

charioted. 
Brandishing  in  her  hand  a  dart  and  roll- 
ing glances  lioness-like, 
Yell'd  and  shriek'dbetween  herdaughters 

in  her  fierce  voiubility. 
Till  her  people   all  around  the    royal 

chariot  agitated, 
Madly  dash'd  the  darts  together,  writhing 

barbarous  lineaments. 
Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when 

they  shiver  in  January, 
Roar'd  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom 

and  blanch  on  the  in'ecipices, 
Yell'd  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear 

an  oak  on  a  promontory. 
So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumul- 
tuous adversaries 
Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat 

with  ra])id  unanimous  hand. 
Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all 

her  pitiless  avaiice. 
Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and 

flutter  tremulously, 
Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her 

enemy  fainted  away. 
Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny 

tyranny  buds. 
Ran   the   land   with  Roman  slaughter, 

multitudinous  agonies. 
Perish'd  many  a  maid  and  matron,  many 

a  valorous  legionary. 
Fell  the  colony,  city,  and  citadel,  London, 

Verulam,  Camulodiine. 

m  QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

Alcaics. 

0  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmO' 

nies, 
0  skill'd  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 


SPECIMEN    OF   A  TRANSLATIOX. 


399 


God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 
Milton,  a  name  to  resound  for  ages  ; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 
Starr'd  from  Jehovah's  gorgeous  armo- 
ries, 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 
Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  on- 
set — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness, 
The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  munnuring, 
And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 
Charm,  as  a  wanderer  out  in  ocean, 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o'er  a  rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 
And  ciimson-hued  the  stately  palm- 
woods 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 

Hendecasyllabics. 
0  YOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers, 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers. 
Look,  I  come  to  the  test,  a  tiny  ])oem 
All  composed  in  a  metre  oi'  'Jatullus, 
All  in  ([uantity,  careful  of  my  motion, 
Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears 

him. 
Lest  I  fall  unawares  before  the  people. 
Waking  laugliter  in  indolent  reviewers. 
Should  [  flounderawhile  without  a  tum- 
ble 
Thro'  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 
They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a 

welcome. 
All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tum- 
ble. 
So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 
Wherefore   slight   me   not  wholly,   nor 

believe  me 
Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 
0  blatant  JIagazines,  regard  me  rather  — 
Since  I  blush  to  belaud  myself  amoment — 
As  some  rare  little  rose,  a  piece  of  in- 
most 
Horticultural  art,  or  half  coqnette-like 
Maiden   not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A  TRANSLATION 
OF  THE  ILIAD  IN  BLANK 
VERSE. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his 

host ; 
Tlicn  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from 

the  yoke, 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  hisown; 
And  oxen  from  the  city,  aud  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearted 

wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought, 

and  heap'd 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off 

the  ])lain 
RoU'd  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 
And  these  all  night  upon  the  bridge*  of 

war 
Sat  glorying  ;  many  a  fire  before  them 

blazed  : 
.Vs  when  in  heaven  the  stars  about  the 

moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  windsarelaid. 
And  every  lieighc  comes  out,  and  jutting 

peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heav- 
ens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the 

stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his 

heart : 
So  many  a  fire   between  the  ships  and 

.stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of 

Troy, 
Athousandon  the  plain;  andclosebyeach 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire  ; 
And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses 

stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the 

dawn.t 

niadYUl.  542-56L 

•  Or.  riflc;e 

f  Or  more  literally,  — 

And  eating  hoary  g^rain  and  pulse  the  steeds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  waiting  the  throned  mom. 


400 


TIMBUCTOO. 


ADDITIONAL    POEMS. 


Note.  —  The  Poems  which  follow  include  all  those  which  have  been  omitted  by  the  author  from  his  latest  ta. 
vised  editions,  or  never  acknowledged  by  him.  They  are  here  printed,  because,  although  unsanctioned  by  Mr. 
Tennyson,  they  have  recently  been  collected  from  various  sources,  and  printed  iit  America. 


TIMBUCTOO.* 

"  Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  mland  lies 
A  mystic  city,  goal  of  high  emprise." 

CHAPMAN. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  Mountain  which  o'er- 

looks 
The  narrow  seas,  whose  rapid  interval 
Parts  Afiic  from  green  Europe,   when 

the  Sun 
Had  fall'n  below  th'  Atlantic,  and  above 
The  silent  heavens  were  blench'd  with 

faery  light, 
Uncertain  whether  faery  light  or  cloud. 
Flowing  Southwai-d,  and  the  chasms  of 

deep,  deep  blue 
Slumber'd  unfathomable,  aiul  the  stars 
Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory  and  pale. 
I  gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  beyond, 
There  where  the  Giant  of  old  Time  infix'd 
The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 
Long  time  erased  from  earth  :  even  as 

the  Sea 
When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildeth  up 
Huge  mounds  whereby  to  stay  his  yeasty 

waves. 
And  much  I  mused  on  legends  quaint 

and  old 
Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all  on 

earth 
Toward  their  brightness,  ev'n  as  flame 

draws  air  ; 
But  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of  man 
As  air  is  th'  life  of  flame  :  and  thou  wert 

then 
A  centred  gloiy-circled  memory, 
Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  the  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  tliou  of  later  name. 
Imperial  Eldorado,  r^of'd  with  gold  : 
Shadows  to  which,  desjiite  all  shocks  of 

cliange. 
All  on-set  of  capricious  accident. 
Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which 

would  not  die. 

*  A  Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor's  Med.il  ,it 
the  Cambridge  Commencement,  MDCCCXXIX.  By 
A.  Tennyson,  ot  Trinity  College. 


As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the  walls 

Shake,  and  the  streets  with  ghastly  faces 
thronged. 

Do  utter  forth  a  subterranean  voice, 

Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired 

At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 

Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 

Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith, 
the  while 

Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips  and 
winks 

Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without  : 

Nathless  she  ever  claspsthemarbleknees, 

Bathes  the  cold  hand   with  tears,  and 
gazeth  on 

Those  eyes  which  wear  no  light  but  that 
wherewith 

Her  fantasy  informs  them. 

Where  are  ye, 

Thrones  of  the  Western  wave,  fair  Isl- 
ands green  ?  ^ 

Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your 
cedarn  glooms. 

The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills  ? 

Your  flowering   capes,   and  your  gold- 
sanded  bays 

Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odorous 
winds  ? 

Where   are   the   infinite   ways,    which, 
seraph-trod. 

Wound  through  your  great  Elysian  soli- 
tudes. 

Whose  lowest  deeps  were,  as  with  visible 
love. 

Filled  with  Divine  efi'ulgence,  circum- 
fused. 

Flowing  between  the  clear  and  polished 
stems. 

And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald 
cones 

In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 

The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints  in 
Heaven  ? 

For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had  birth 

In  that  blest  grounel,  but  it  was  played 
about 


TIMBUCTOO. 


401 


With  its  peculiar  glory.     Then  I  raised 
My  voice  and  cried,  ' '  Wide  At'ric,  doth 

thy  Sun 
Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a  city  as  fair 
As  those  wliicli  starred  the  night  o'  the 

elder  world  ? 
Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 
Adreaniasfmil  asthose  of  ancient  time  ?" 
A  curve  of  whitening,  Hashing,  ebbing 
light  ! 
A  rustling  of  white  wings  !  the  bright 

descent 
Of  a  young  Seraph  !  and  he  stood  beside  me 
There  on  the  ridge,  and  looked  into  my 

face 
With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs. 
So  that  with  liasty  motion  I  did  veil 
My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw  be- 
fore me 
Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart  the 

eyes 
Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday  Sun. 
Girt  with  a  zone  of  flasliinggoM  lieneath 
His  breast,  and  compassed  round  about 

his  brow 
With  triple  arch  of  everchanging  t)ows. 
And  circled  with  the  glory  of  living  light 
And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stood. 
"0  child  of  man,  why  muse  you  here 
alone 
Upon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreams  of  old 
.  Which  tilled  the  earth  with  passing  love- 
liness. 
Which  flung  strange  music  on  the  howl- 
ing winds. 
And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise  ? 
Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mortality : 
Open  thine  eyes  and  see." 

I  looked,  but  not 
Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 
With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the 

light 
Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which  looked 

from  out 
The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless  eyes. 
I  felt  my  soul  giow  mighty,  and  my  spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  mymental  eyegrew  large 
With   such    a    vast    circumference    of 

thought. 
That  in  my  vanity  I  seemed  to  stand 
Upon  the  outward  verge  and  bound  alone 
Of  full  beatitude.     Each  failing  sense, 
As  with  a  momentary  flash  of  light. 
Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.  I  saw 
The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the  dark 
earth. 


The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air. 
The  Moon's  white  cities,  and  the  opal 

%vidth 
Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver 

heights 
Unvisitfd  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud. 
And  tlic  unsounded,  undescended  depth 
Of  lier  black  hollows.     The  clear  galaxy 
Shorn  of  its  hoary  lu.stre,  wonderful. 
Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points  of 

light. 
Blaze  within  blaze,  an  unimagined  depth 
And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircled   planets,  wiieel   in 

wheel. 
Arched  the  wan    sapphire.     Nay—  the 

hum  of  men. 
Or  other   things   talking    in    unknown 

tongues. 
And  notes  of  bu.sy  life  in  distant  worlds 
Beat  like  a  far  wave  on  my  anxious  ear. 
A  maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrilling 

thoughts, 
Invohingand  embracing  each  with  each, 
Kapid  as  fire,  inextricably  linked. 
Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the  palpitating 

sense. 
The   issue   of  strong  impulse,   hurried 

through 
The  riven  rapt  brain  ;  as  when  in  some 

large  lake 
From  pressure  of  descendent  crags,  which 

lapse 
Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  parent 

slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and   increasing 

spheres 
Which  break  upon  each  other,  each  th' 

effect 
Of  separate  impulse,  but  more  fleet  and 

strong 
Than  its  jM-ecursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid  the  wild  unrest  of  swimming  shade 
Dappled  with  hollow  and  alternate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I  know  not  if  I  shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly  now, 
Less  vivid  than  a  half-forgotten  dream, 
The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o'er  me,  and  it  may  be  I  entwine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems  tome 
As  even  then  the  torrent  of  quick  thought 


402 


TIMBUCTOO. 


Absorbed  me  from  tbe  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fle«tness.     Where  is  he, 

thcat  bonie 
Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrowy  stream, 
Could  link  his  shallop  to  the  fleetingedge. 
And  muse  midway  with  philosophic  calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  laws  which  regulate 
The  iierceness  of  the  bounding  element  ? 
My  thoughts  which  long  had  grovelled 

in  the  slime 
Of  this   dull  world,  like   dusky  worms 

which  house 
Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 
Upon  some  earth-awakening  day  of  Spring 
Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 
Winnow   the  purple,    bearing  on   both 

sides 
Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which 

burn 
Fan-like  and  fibred  with  intensest  bloom  ; 
Even  so  my  thoughts  ere  while  so  low, 

now  felt 
Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To  bear  them  upward  through  the  track- 
less fields 
Of  undefined  existence  far  and  free. 
Then  first  within  the  South  methought 

I  saw 
A  wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 
Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on  dome. 
Illimitable  range  of  battlement 
On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 
Of  canopy  o'ercanopied. 

Behind 
In  diamond  light  up  spring  the  dazzling 

peaks 
Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth's 
As  heaven   than  earth   is  fairer.     Each 

aloft 
Upon  his  narrowed  eminence  bore  globes 
Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  semblances 
Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.     But  the  glory  of  the  place 
Stood  out  a  pillared  front  of  burnished 

gold. 
Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
Or  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Two  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where 

no  gaze 
Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye  could 

scan, 
T>irough  length  of  porch  and  valve  and 

boundless  hall. 
Part  of  a  throne  of  fiery  flame,  wherefrom 
The  snowy  skirting  of  a  garment  hung. 
And  glimpse  of  multitude  of  multitudes 
That  ministered  around  it  —  if  I  saw 


These  things  distinctly,  for  my  human 

brain 
Staggered  beneath  the  vision,  and  thick 

night 
Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I  fell. 
With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me  up : 
Then  with  amournful  andineff'ablesmile. 
Which  but  to  look  on  for  a  moment  filled 
My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears. 
In  accents  of  majestic  melody, 
Like  a  swolnriver'sgushingsin  stillnight 
Mingled  with   floating  music,  thus  he 

spake  : 
"  There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than  I  to 

sway 
The  heart  of  man  ;  and  teach  him  to  attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable  ; 
And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty  stair 
Whose  landing-place  is  wrapt  about  with 

clouds 
Of  glory  of  heaven.  *     With  earliest  light 

of  Spring, 
And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summertide, 
And  in  red  Autumn  when  the  winds  are 

wild 
With  gambols,    and   when    full-voiced 

Winter  roofs 
The  headland  with  inviolate  white  snow, 
I  play  about  his  heart  a  thousand  ways, 
Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his  ears 
With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and 

wood, 
—  Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and  of 

waters 
Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind  — 
And  win  him  unto  me  :  and  few  there  be 
So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and 

known 
Ahigherthan  they  see :  they  with  dim  eyes 
Behold  me  darkling.     Lo  !  I  have  given 

thee 
To  understand  my  presence,  and  to  feel 
My  fulness  :  I  have  filled  thy  lips  with 

power. 
I  have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres 

of  heaven, 
Man's  fii'st,  last  home  :  and  thou  with 

ravished  sense 
Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years.     I  am  the  Spirit, 
The    permeating    life    which    courseth 

through 
All  th'  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 
Of  the  great  vine  of  Fable,  which,  out 

spread 

•  "  Be  ye  perfect,  even  as  your  Father  in  heaveafi 
perfect." 


THE   "how"   and   the   "WHY." 


403 


With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and  clus- 
ters rare, 
Reacheth  to  every  corner  under  heaven, 
Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth  ; 
So  that  men's  hopes  and  fears  take  refuge  in 
The  fragrance  of  its  complicated  glooms, 
And  cool  impeached  twilights.     Child  of 

man, 
Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translucent 

wave, 
Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  windeth 

througli 
The  argent  streets  o'  the  city,  imaging 
The  soft  inversion  of  her  tremuious  domes. 
Her  gardens  frequent  with    the  stately 

palm. 
Her  pagods  hung  with  musicof  sweet  bells. 
Her  obelisks  of  ranged  chrysolite, 
Minarets  and  towers  ?    Lo  !  how  he  pass- 

eth  by, 
And  gulfs  himself  in  sauds,  as  not  en- 
during 


To  carry  through  the  world  those  waves, 

which  boi'e 
The  reHex  of  my  city  in  their  depth. 
0  city  !  0  latest  throne  !   where  I  was 

i-aised 
To  be  a  mystery  of  loveliness 
Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  welhiigh  come 
When  1  must  reuderupthisglorioushome 
To  keen  Discovery ;  soon  yon  brilliant 

towers 
Shall  darken  with  the  wavingof  her  wand  ; 
Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into  huts, 
IJlack  specks  amid  a  waste  of  dreary  sand. 
Low- built,  mud- walled,  barbarian  settle- 
ments. 
How  changed  from  this  fair  city  ! " 

Thus  far  the  Spirit  : 
Then  parted  heavenward  on  the  wing  : 

and  I 
Was  left  alone  on  Caljje,  and  the  moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was 
dark  I 


POEMS  PUBLISHED   IN  THE   EDITION"   OF   1830, 
AND   OMITTED   IN   LATEK   EDITIONS. 


ELEGIACS. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming  the 
broad  valley  dimmed  in  the  gloam- 
ing : 

Tbro'  the  black-stemmed  pines  only  the 
far  river  shines. 

Creeping  through  blossomy  rushes  and 
bowers  of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplar  tall  rivulets  babble 
and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly  ;  the 
grasshopper  caroUeth  clearly  ; 

"Deeply  the  turtle  cooes ;  shrilly  the  owlet 
halloos  ; 

Winds  creep  :  dews  fall  chilly  :  in  her  first 
sleep  earth  breathes  stilly  : 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  watergnats 
murmur  and  mourn. 

Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth  :  the  glimmer- 
ing water  outfloweth  : 

T\vin  peaks  shadowed  with  pine  slope  to 
the  dark  hyaline. 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  between 
the  two  peaks  ;  but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him  be- 
neath in  her  breast. 


The  ancient  poetess  singeth  that  Hespe- 
rus all  things  biingeth. 

Smoothing  the  wearied  mind  :  bring  me 
my  love,  Kosalind. 

Thou  comest  morning andeven  ;  she  com- 
eth  not  morning  or  even. 

False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is  my 
sweet  Rosalind  ? 


THE  "HOW"  AND  THE  "WHY.^ 


? 


I  AM  any  man's  suitor. 
If  any  will  be  my  tutor  : 
Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 
Some  think  it  speedeth  fast, 
In  time  there  is  no  present. 
In  eternity  no  future, 
In  eternity  no  past. 
We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  born,  we  die. 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the 
why  ? 

The  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 
The  wheatears  whisper  to  each  other  ; 


404 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS. 


What  is  it  they  say  ?  what  do  they  there  ? 
Wliy  two  and  two  make  lour  ?  why  round 

is  not  square  ? 
Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the  light 

clouds  fly  ? 
Why  the  heavy  oak  groans,  and  the  white 

willows  sigh  ? 
Why  deepisnothigh,  andhighisnotdeep  ? 
Wliether  we  wake,  or  whether  we  sleep  ? 
Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die  ? 
How  you  are  you  ?  why  1  am  I  ? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  why'! 

The  world  is  somewhat ;  it  goes  on  some- 
how : 

But  what  is  the  meaning  oithen  and  now  ? 
I  feel   there   is  something ;  but  how 
and  what  ? 

I  know  there  is  somewhat  :  but  what  and 
why  ? 

I  cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 
Tiielittlebirdpipeth—  "why?  why?" 

In  the  summer  woods  when  the  sun  falls 
low, 

And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite 
bough. 

And  stares  in  his  face,  and  shouts  ' '  how  ? 
how  ? " 

And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the  mel- 
low twilight, 

And   chants  "how?   how?"  the  whole 
of  the  night. 

Why  the  life  goes  when  the  blood  is  spilt  ? 

What  the  life  is  ?  where  the  soul  may  lie  ? 
Why  a  church  is  with  a  steeple  built  : 
And  a  house  with  a  chimney-pot  ? 
Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  what  ? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and  the 
why  ? 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS 

OF  A  SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND  NOT 
IN  UNITY  AVITH  ITSELF. 

0  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now. 

1  faint,  I  fall.     Men  say  that  thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  .snch  as  me, 
Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn. 
And  that  my  sin  was  as  a  thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  girt  thy  brow, 
Wonnding  thy  soul.  —  That  even  now, 
In  this  extremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I  should  reqnire 

A  sign  !  and  if  a  bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the  slumberous  summer  noon 


While  I  do  pray  to  thee  alone, 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow  I 

Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low  ? 

The  boastings  of  my  spirit  still  ? 

The  joy  I  had  in  my  free  will 

All  cold,  and  dead,  andcorpse-likegrown? 

And  what  is  left  to  me,  but  thou, 

And  faith  in  thee  ?     Men  pass  me  by  ; 

Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 

And  children  all  seem  full  of  thee  ! 

And  women  smile  with  saintlike  glancea 

Like  thine  own  mother's  when  she  bowed 

Above  thee,  on  that  ha))py  morn 

When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud. 

And  thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  born. 

Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all — - 

—  I  one  of  them  :  my  brothers  they  : 

Brothers  in  Christ  —  a  world  of  peace 

And  confidence,  day  after  day  ; 
And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should 
cease, 

And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a  common  faith  ! 
To  hold  a  common  scorn  of  death  ! 
And  at  a  burial  to  hear 

The  creaking  cords  which  wound  and  eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene'er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  gr'cf,  not  fear, 

With  hopeful  grief,  werepassingsweet! 
A  grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull, 
Plearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
As  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a  dark  cloud  with  licli  moonlight. 
To  stand  beside  a  grave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 
Are  built,  and  smile  in  calm,  and  say  — 
"  These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be 
i  Clot]ied  on  with  immortality 
More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 

All  that  is  pass'd  into  the  flowers, 
And  into  beasts  and  other  men, 
And  all  the  Norland  whiilwind  showers 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O'erwashes  with  sharj)  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,  and  be 
Indued  with  immoitality." 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee  ! 
Who  lets  his  waxen  fingers  play 
About  his  mother's  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother's  eyes. 
They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day, 
They  light  his  little  life  alway  ; 
He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes; 
He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  deatli, 


SUPPOSED   CONFESSIONS. 


405 


Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise, 
Because  the  Spirit  of  luiiijiiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is  ; 
And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart, 
Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth. 
Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell. 
Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart, 
Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth, 
Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air, 
Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtile,  warm,  and  golden  breath. 
Which  mixing  with  the  infant's  blood, 
Full  hlls  him  with  beatitude. 
Oh  !  sure  it  is  a  special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt, 
To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple  mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant's  dawning  year. 
Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propped  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 
In  thine,  I  listened  to  thy  vows. 
For  me  outpoured  in  holiest  prayer  — 
For  me  unworthy  I  — and  beheld 
The  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith, 
And  the  clear  spirit  shining  through. 
Oh  !  wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 
From  roots  which  strike  so  deep?  why  dare 
Paths  in  the  desert  ?     Could  not  I 
Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt. 
To  th'  earth  —until  the  ice  would  melt 
Here,  and  I  feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 
What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  reared  —  to  brush  the 

dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clav  ? 
Myself?     Is  it  thus?     Myself?     Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  ?     But  why 
Prevailed  not  thy  pure  prayers  ?  Whypray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  who  can  save 
But  will  not  ?   Great  in  faith,  and  strong 
Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Weit  thou,  and  yet  unheard  ?     What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Through  utter  dark  a  full-sailed  skitf, 
Unpiloted  i'  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk  !  I  know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong, 
That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive, 
In  deep  and  daily  prayers  wouldst  strive 
To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 
Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  stiU  — 


"  Bring  this  lamb  back  into  thy  fold, 
My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  thy  will." 
Wouldst  tell  me  1  !MUst  brook  the  rod. 
And  chastisement  of  human  pride  ; 
That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  liglit  of  God  ! 
That  hitherto  I  had  detied. 
And  had  rejected  God  —  that  Grace 
Would  drop  from  his  o'erbrimming  love,- 
As  manna  on  my  wilderness. 
If  1  would  pray  —  that  God  would  move 
And   strike   the  hard,   hard   rock,  and 

thence. 
Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness, 
Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which    would  keep   green   hope's   life. 

Alas  ! 
I  think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Or  sojourn  in  me.     I  am  void. 
Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ?    Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailt}'  there,  where  man 
Hath  moored  and  rested  ?     Ask  the  sea 
At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a  tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a  mountain  tarn  ? 
Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer  ? 
Wherefore  he  moaneth.  thus,  nor  can 
Draw  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
AUthatblue  heaven  which  hues  and  paves 
The  other  ?     I  am  too  forlorn. 
Too  shaken  :  my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls, 
Movedfrom  l)eneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 

"  Yet,"  said  1,  in  ray  morn  of  youth. 
The  unsunned  iieshness  of  my  strength 
When  1  v.-eut  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 
"  It  is  man's  ])rivilege  to  doubt. 
If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length, 
Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  of  cliangt 
An  image  with  profulgent  brows. 
And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 
Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 
Of  laAvless  airs  at  last  .stood  out 
This  excellence  and  solid  form 
Of  constant  beauty.     For  the  Ox 
Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 
The  horned  valleys  all  about. 
And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills  . 
In  summerheats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof.     And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  vear, 


40(3 


SONG. 


And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere, 
And  answers  to  his  mother's  calls 
From  the  flowered  furrow.     lu  a  time, 
Of  wliich  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Through  liis  warm  heart :  and  then,  from 

■\vlience 
He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A  shadow  ;  and  his  native  slope 
Wliere  lie  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb. 
Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eye% 
And  sometliing  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 
Shall  men  live  tlius,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a  young  lamb,  wlio  cannot  dream, 
Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  ? 
Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 
Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem. 
And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one, 
If  one  there  be  ?  "  Ay  me  !  I  fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.     Yet,  my  God, 
Whom  call  1  Idol  ?     Let  thy  dove 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 
Be  unremembered,  and  thy  love 
Enlighten  me.     0  teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharj)-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gi-oss  blackness  underneath. 

0  weary  life  !  O  weary  death  ! 
0  spirit  and  lieart  made  desolate  ! 
0  damned  vacillating  state  ! 


THE   BURIAL  OF   LOVE. 

Hi.s  eyes  in  eclipse, 
Pale-cold  his  lips, 
The  light  of  his  hopes  unfed. 
Mute  his  tongue. 
His  bow  unstrung 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed, 
Backward  drooping  his  graceful  liead, 
Love  is  dead  : 
His  last  arrow  is  sped  ; 
He  hath  not  another  dart  ; 
Go —  carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed  ; 
Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart  — 
Love  is  dead. 

O  truest  love  !  art  thou  forlorn, 

And  unrevenged  ?  thy  pleasant  wiles 
Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent  joy  ? 
Shall  hollow-hearted  apathy, 


The  cruellest  form  of  perfect  scorn. 
With  languor  of  most  hateful  smiles, 
For  ever  write. 
In  the  withered  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye. 
An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy  ? 
No  !  sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall. 

Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  sluneth  toalb 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change  ; 
For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not  spring. 
Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet  birds 
sing. 

Till  Love  have  his  full  revenge. 

TO   . 


Sainted  Juliet  !  dearest  name  ! 
If  to  love  be  life  alone, 
Divinest  Juliet, 
I  love  thee,  and  live  ;  and  yet 
Love  unreturned  is  like  the  fragrant 
flame 
Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 

offered  to  gods  upon  an  altar-throne ; 
My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes. 
Changed  into  fire,  and  blown  about  with 
sighs. 

SONG. 


r  THE  glooming  light 
Of  middle  night 
So  cold  and  white. 
Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning  wave, 
Beside  her  are  laid 
Her  mattock  and  spade. 
For  siie  hath  half  delved  her  own  deep 
grave. 
Alone  she  is  there  : 
The  white  clouds  drizzle  :  her  hair  falls 
loose  : 
Her  shoulders  are  bare  ; 
Her  tears  are  mixed  with  the  beaded 
dews. 


Deatli  standeth  by  ; 

She  will  not  die  ; 

With  glazed  eye 
She  looks  at  her  grave  :  she  cannot  sleep; 

Ever  alone 

She  maketh  her  moan  : 
She  cannot  speak  :  she  can  only  weej), 


NOmiNG  WILL   DIE. 


407 


For  she  will  not  hope. 
The  thick  snow  falls  on  her  Hake  by- 
flake, 
The  dull  wave  mourns  down 
the  slope, 
The  world  will  not  change,  and  her  heart 
will  not  break. 


SONG. 


The  lintwhite  and  the  throstlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear  ; 
All  in  the  bloomed  JIay. 
They  from  the  blosniy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleeting  year. 
If  that  he  would  them  hear 

And  stay. 
Alas  !  that  one  so  beautiful 
Should  have  so  dull  an  ear  ! 


Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  call, 
But  thou  art  deaf  as  death  ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  ^Nlay. 
When  thy  light  perisheth 
That  from  thee  issueth, 
Our  life  evanisheth  : 

O,  stay  ! 
Alas  !  that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a  breath  ! 


Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a  king, 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
Thy  golden  largess  fling. 
And  longer  hear  us  sing  ; 
Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing. 

Yet  stay. 
Alas  !  that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering  ! 


Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on  ; 
If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun. 
Delight  is  with  thee  gone. 

0,  stay  ! 
Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres, 
We  pri'thee  pass  not  on. 

•  "  His  crispe  hair  in  ring'is  was  yronne.** 

CHAUCER,  Knightes  Tale. 


SONG. 


Every  day  hath  its  night : 

Every  night  its  morn  : 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  borne ; 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade  ; 
Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a  shade  — 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 


When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 

Apes  the  happy  vein, 
We  're  so  kin  to  earth, 
Pleasaunce  fiithers  pain  — 
Ah !  welaway  ! 
Madness  laugheth  loud  : 
Laughter  bringeth  tears : 
Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shioud. 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 


All  is  change,  woe  or  weal ; 
Joy  is  Sorrow's  brother  ; 
Grief  and  gladness  steal 
Sjmibols  of  each  other  : 
Ah  !  welaway  ! 
Larks  in  heaven's  cope 
Sing  :  the  culvers  mourn 
All  the  livelong  day. 
Be  not  all  forlorn  : 
Let  us  weep  in  hope  — 
Ah  !  welaway  1 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE. 

When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing 

Under  my  eye  ? 
When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 

Over  the  sky  ? 
When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting  ? 
When  will  theheart  be  aweary  of  beating? 

And  nature  die  ? 
Never,  0  never  !  nothing  will  die  ; 

The  stream  flows. 

The  Avind  blows, 

The  cloud  fleets. 

The  heart  beats. 
Nothing  will  die. 


408 


HERO   TO   LEANDER. 


Nothing  will  die  ; 

All  things  will  change 
Through  eternity. 

'T  is  the  world's  winter  ; 
Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago. 
Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre, 

But  spring  a  new  comer  — 
A  spring  rich  and  strange, 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round. 

Through  and  through, 
Here  and  there, 
Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  tilled  with  life  anew. 
The  world  was  never  made  ; 
It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 
So  let  the  wind  range  ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Through  eternity. 
Nothing  was  born  ; 
Nothing  will  die ; 
All  things  will  change. 


ALL   THINGS  WILL  DIE. 

CLEARLYthe  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flow- 
ing 
Under  my  eye  ; 
Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are 
blowing 
Over  the  sky. 
One  after  another  the  vs'hite  clouds  are 

fleeting ; 
Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joyance 
is  beating 
Full  merrily  ; 
Yet  all  things  must  die. 
The  stream  will  cease  to  flow ; 
The  wind  will  cease  to  blow  ; 
The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 
The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 
For  all  things  must  die. 

All  things  must  die. 
Spring  will  come  nevermore. 

0,  vanity  ! 
Death  waits  at  the  door. 
See  !  our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  merrymaking. 
We  are  called  —  we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low. 
In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 
The  meiTy  glees  are  still ; 


The  voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 
Nor  the  wind  on  the  hill. 
0,  misery  ! 
Hark  !  death  is  calling 
While  1  speak  to  ye, 
The  jaw  is  falling. 
The  red  cheek  paling. 
The  strong  limbs  failing  ; 
Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing  | 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 
Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell : 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 

The  old  earth 

Had  a  birth. 

As  all  men  know 

Long  ago. 
And  the  old  earth  must  die. 
So  let  the  wai'm  winds  range, 
And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore  ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Through  eternity. 
All  things  were  bom. 
Ye  will  come  nevermore, 
For  all  things  must  die. 

HERO  TO  LEANDER. 

0  GO  not  yet,  my  love  ! 

The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 
The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven 
above. 

And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fai*t, 
0,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again, 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last  ! 
0  kiss  me  ere  we  part  ; 
Grow  closer  to  my  heart ! 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the  bosom 
of  the  main. 
0  joy  !  0  bliss  of  blisses  ! 

My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 
Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses. 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 
Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses. 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir  ; 
Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I  have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant 
myrrh  ; 
Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  wander  hence  to-night, 

I  '11  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 
To-night  the  roaring  brine 


THE   GRASSHOPPER. 


409 


"Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses  ; 
The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 
Will  be  both  bine  and  calm  ; 
And  the  billow  will  embrace  tiiee  with  a 
kiss  as  soft  as  mine. 
No  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 
And  when  thon  art  dead,  Leander, 

My  soul  must  follow  thee  ! 
0  go  not  yet,  my  love  ! 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low  ; 
The  (leep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 

Those  marble  steps  below. 
The  turret-stairs  are  wet 

That  lead  into  the  sea. 
Leander  !  go  not  yet. 
The  pleasant  stars  have  set : 
0,  go  not,  go  not  yet. 

Or  I  will  follow  thee  ! 


THE   MYSTIC. 

ANGELshave  talked  withhini,  and  showed 

him  thrones  : 
Ye  knew  him  not ;  he  was  not  one  of  ye, 
Ye  scorned  him  with  an  undiscerning 

scorn  : 
Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel  in  his  eye, 
The  still  .serene  abstraction  :  he  hath  felt 
The  vanities  of  after  and  before  ; 
Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The  stern  experiences  of  converse  lives, 
The  linked  woes  of  many  a  fiery  change 
Had  purified,  and  chastened,  and  made 

free. 
Always  there  stood  before  him,  night  and 

Of  wayward  vary-colored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene. 
Colossal,  without  form,  or  sense,  orsound. 
Dim  shadows  but  unwaning  presences 
Fourfaoed  to  four  corners  of  the  sky  : 
And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  fronting 

one, 
One  forward,  one  respectant,  three  but 

one  ; 
And  yet  again,  again  and  evermoi-e, 
Forthe  two  first  were  not,  butonlyseemed. 
One  .shadow  in  the  midst  of  a  great  light. 
One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time. 
One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect  calm, 
Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 
For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours. 
Daughters  of  time,  divinely  tall,  beneath 
Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shining 

eyes 


Smilingagodlike  smile  (the  innocent  light 
Of  earliest  yoirth   pierced  through  and 

through  with  all 
Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 
I'plield,  and  ever  liold  aloft  the  clou<l 
Whicli  droops  low-liung  on  either  gate  of 

life. 
Both  birth  and  death  :  he  in  the  centre 

fixt. 
Saw  far  on  each  side  through  the  grated 

gates 
Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  distances. 
He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaiiung  from  the  body,  and  apart 
Ininteliectand  powerandwill,  liathheard 
Time  (lowing  in  the  middle  of  the  niglit. 
And  all  things  creeping  to  a  day  of  doom. 
How  could  ye  kno\v  him  ?     Ye  were  yet 

within 
The  narrower  circle  :   he  had  wellnigh 

reached 
The  last,  which  with  a  region  of  white 

flame. 
Pure  without  heat,  into  a  larger  air 
Upburning.  and  an  ether  of  black  blue, 
Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives, 

THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


Voice  of  the  summer  wind, 
Joy  of  the  summer  plain. 
Life  of  the  summer  hours, 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 
No  Tithon  thou  as  poets  feign 
(Shame  fall  'em  they  are  deaf  and  blind). 
But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong. 
Bowing  the  seeded  summer  flowers. 
Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quarrel, 

Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 
Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 
Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 
Thou  art  a  mailed  warrior  in  youth  and 
strength  complete ; 
Armed  cap-a-pie 
Full  fair  to  see  ; 
Unknowing  fear, 
Undreading  loss, 
A  gallant  cavalier. 
Sans  2Xii'r' et  saTis  reprocJie, 
In  sunlight  and  in  shadow, 
The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 


I  would  dwell  with  thee, 

Merry  grasshopper, 
Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 


410 


THE  TEARS   OF   HEAVEN. 


And  as  light  as  air  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears, 
Thou  hast  no  conipt  of  years, 
No  withered  immortality, 
But  a  short  youth  sunny  and  free. 
Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 
A  summer  of  loud  song. 

And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 
What  hast  thou  to  do  M'ith  evil 
in  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel, 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride. 
Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singing  flowered  gi-asses. 
That    brush    thee    with    their    silken 

tresses  ? 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil. 
Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 

In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms, 
Ever  leaping,  ever  singing. 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooms  ? 

LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGETFUL- 

NESS. 

Ere   yet   my   heart    was  sweet   Love's 

tomb, 
Love  labored  honey  busily. 
I  was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  hee, 
My  heart  the  honeycomb. 
One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 
P?'ide  came  beneath  and  held  a  light. 

The  cruel  vapors  went  through  all, 
Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  his  cell  : 
Pride  took  Love's  sweets,  and  by  a  spell 
Did  change  them  into  gall  ;  ^ 

And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride, 
Did  wax  so  thin  on  gall, 
Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  all. 
What  marvel  that  she  died  ? 


CHORUS 

IN   AN  UNPUBLISHED   DRAMA,    WRITTEN 
VERY   EARLY. 

The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven. 

The  rapid  M'aste  of  roving  sea, 
The  fountain-pregnant  mountains  riven 

To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy. 
By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 

That  wander  round  their  windy  cones, 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 

Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of  strange 
*       Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


The  day,  the  diamonded  night, 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound, 
The  heavy  thunder's  griding  might, 

The  herald  lightning's  starry  bound, 
The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom. 

The  naked  summer's  glowing  birth. 
The  troublous  autumn's  sallow  gloom, 
The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 
With  sheeny  white,  are  full  of  strangt 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change- 
Each  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 

Grand  music  and  redundant  fire. 
The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings. 

The  murm'rous  planets'  rolling  choir. 
The  globe-filled  arch  that,  cleaving  air, 

Lost  in  its  own  eff'ulgence  sleep.s, 
The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare. 
And  thunder  through  the  sapphire  deeps 
In  wayward  strength,  and  fuU  of 

strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 

LOST   HOPE. 

You  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which  once 
was  mine  : 
But  did  the  while  your  harsh  decree 
deplore. 
Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant 
shrine. 
My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been  and 
was  no  more. 

So  on  an  oaken  sprout 
A  goodly  acorn  grew  ; 
But  winds   from    heaven    shook   the 
acorn  out. 
And  filled  the  cup  with  dew. 

THE  TEARS  OF   HEAVEN. 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all  night 
till  morn. 

In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to  weep, 

Because  the  earth  hath  made  her  state 
forlorn 

With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnumbered 
years. 

And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor  reap. 

And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back 
her  tears 

Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and  deep, 

And  showering  down  the  glory  of  light- 
some day, 

Smiles  on  the  earth's  worn  brow  to  wm 
her  if  she  may. 


SONNETS. 


411 


LOVE   AND   SORROW. 

0  MAIDEN,  fresher  than  the  first  gi-een  leaf 
With  which  the  fearful  springtide  flecks 

the  lea, 
Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I  said  to  thee 
That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bitter 

grief 
Doth  hold  tlie  other  half  in  sovranty. 
Thou  art  my  heart's  sun  in  love's  crys- 
talline : 
Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst  not 

shine  : 
Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart, 

and  tiiine 
My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my 

heart, 
Issueofitsown  substance,  my  heart's  night 
Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  thy  light, 
All-powerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 
Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substanceless, 
Then  might  thy  rays  pass  through  to 

the  other  side. 
So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would  abide, 
But  lose  tliemselves  in  utter  emptiness. 
Half-liglit,    half-shadow,   let   my  spirit 

sleep  ; 
They  never  learned  to  love  who  never 

knew  to  weep. 


TO   A   LADY  SLEEPING. 

0  THOU  whose  fringed  lids  I  gaze  upon. 
Through  whose  dim  brain  the   winged 

dreams  are  borne, 
Unroof  the  shrines  of  clearest  vision. 
In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn  ; 
Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  virgin 

light 
Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dreamful 

dark. 
Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night, 
Tiiough  long  ago  listeningthe  poised  lark, 
With  eyes  dropt  downward  through  the 

blue  serene'. 
Over  heaven's  pai-apet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

Could  I  outwear  my  present  state  of  woe 
With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i'  the 

spring 
Hues  of  fresh  youth,  and  mightily  outgrow 
The  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  suffering  — 
Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 
A  sheeny  snake,  the  light  of  vernal  bowers, 


Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of 
flowers 

And  watered  valleys  where  the  young 
birds  sing  ; 

Could  I  thus  hope  my  lost  delight's  re- 
newing, 

I  straightly  would  connuand  the  tears  to 
creep 

From  my  charged  lids  ;  but  inwardly  I 
weep  , 

Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my  heart  is  wooing : 

That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen  rain 

From  my  old  eyes,  and  melted  it  again. 

SONNET. 

TuouG'.i  Night  hath  climbed  her  peak 

of  highest  noon, 
And  fitter  blasts  the  screaming  autumn 

whirl. 
All  n  ight  through  archways  of  the  bridged 

pearl. 
And  portalsofpure  silver,  walks  tlie  moon. 
Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  agony, 
Turn  cloud  to  light,  ami  bitterness  to  joj', 
And  dross  to  gold  with  glorious  alchemy, 
Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world's  an- 
noy. 
Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  .sorrow 

and  ruth 
That  roar  beneath  ;  unshaken  peace  hath 

won  thee  ; 
So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms 

of  truth  ; 
So  shall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be  on 

thee  ; 
So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body's  youth. 
An  honorable  eld  shall  come  upon  thee. 


SONNET. 

Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of  Good, 
Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind, 
Thronging  the  cells  of  the  diseased  mind. 
Hateful  with  hanging  cheeks,  a  withered 

brood. 
Though  hourly  pastured  on  the  salient 

blood  ? 
0  that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold  or 

heat 
Would  shatter  and  o'erbear  the  brazen  beat 
Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  solitude 
Of  middle    space   confound   them,  and 

blow  back 
Their    wild    cries    down    their    cavern 

throats,  and  slake 


412 


THE   KRAKEN, 


With    points  of  blast-borne   haii   their 

heated  eyne  ! 
So  their  wan  limbs  no  more  might  come 

between 
The  moon  and  the  moon's  reflex  in  the 

night, 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar 

light. 

SONNET. 

The  jDallid  thunder-stricken  sigh  forgain, 
Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float, 
And  sailing  on  Pactolus  in  a  boat, 
Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully 

they  strain 
Weak    eyes   upon  t)ie   glistening  sands 

that  robe 
The  understream.     The  wise,   could  he 

behold 
Cathedraled  caverns  of  thick-ribbed  gold 
And  Ijranching  silvers  ofthe  central  globe, 
AVould  marvel  from  so  beautiful  a  sight 
How  scorn  and  ruin,  pain  and  hate  could 

flow  : 
But  Hatred  in  a  gold  cave  sits  below  ; 
Pleached  with  her  hair,  in  mail  of  argent 

light 
Shot  into  gold,  a  snake  her  forehead  clips, 
And  skins  the  color  from  her  trembling 

lips. 

LOVE. 


Thou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying 

love. 
Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near. 
Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe  and 

move, 
Though   night  and  pain  and   ruin  and 

death  reign  here. 
Thou  foldest,  like  a  golden  atmosphere. 
The  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God  : 
Passing'through  thee  the  edicts  of  his  fear 
Are  mellowed  into  music,  borne  abroad 
3y  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend 

the  sea. 
Even  from  its  central  deeps:  thine  empery 
Is  over  all ;  thou  wilt  not  brook  eclipse  ; 
Thou  goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 
Like  lightning :  thou  dost  everbrood  above 
The  silenceofallhearts,  unutterable  Love. 


To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old  age 
Is  butto  know  thee  :  dimly  we  behold  thee 


Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  infold 

thee. 
We  beat  ujion  our  aching  hearts  in  rage  ; 
We  cry  for  thee  ;  Ave  deem    the    world 

thy  tomb. 
As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 
The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 
Hollowed  in  awful  chasms  of  wheeling 

gloom. 
Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on  thee. 
Come,  thou  of  many  crowns,  white-robed 

love. 
Oh  !    rend  the  veil  in  twain  :    all  men 

adore  thee  ; 
Heaven  crietli  after  thee  ;  earth  waiteth 

for  thee  ; 
Breathe  on   thy  winged  throne,  and  it 

shall  jnove 
In  music  and  in  light  o'er  land  and  sea. 


And  now  —  methinks  I  gaze  upon  thee 

now. 
As  on  a  serpent  in  his  agonies 
Awe-stricken  Indians;  what  time  laid  low 
And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds 

he  lies. 
When  the  new  year  warm-breathed  on 

the  Earth, 
Waiting  to  light  him    with  her  purple 

skies. 
Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise. 
Already  with  the  pangs  of  a  new  birth 
Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulsed 

eyes. 
And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin 
To  wander  down  his  sable-.sheeny  sides. 
Like    light   on   troubled   waters :    from 

within 
Anon  he  nisheth  forth  with  merry  din. 
And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength 

abides  ; 
Andfrom  his  brows  a  crown  of  living  light 
Looks  through  the  thick-stemmed  woods 

by  day  and  night. 


THE   KEAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep ; 
Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 
His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded  sleep, 
The  Kraken  .sleepeth  :  faintest  sunlights 

flee 
About  his  shadowy  sides  :  abovehim  swell 
Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and 

height ; 


DUALISMS. 


413 


And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 
From  many  a  wondrous  grot  and  secret 

cell 
Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 
Winnow  with  giant  fins  the  slumbering 

green. 
There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 
Battening  upon  huge   seaworms  in  his 

sleep, 
Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep  ; 
Then  onec  by  man  and  angels  to  be  seen, 
In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  sur- 
face die. 


ENGLISH   WAR-SONG. 

Who  fears  to  die  ?    Who  fears  to  die  ? 
Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die  ? 
He  shall  find  what  he  fears  ;  and  none 
shall  grieve 
For  the  man  who  feai's  to  die  ; 
But  the  withering  scorn  of  the  many 
shall  cleave 
To  the  man  who  fears  to  die. 

CHORUS. 
Shout  for  England  ! 
Ho  !  for  England  ! 
George  for  England  ! 
Merry  England  ! 
England  for  aye  ! 

Thehollow  at  heart  shall  crouch  forlorn. 
He   shall  cat   the   bread  of  common 
scorn  ; 
It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  salt  tear, 
Shall  be  steeped  in  his  own  salt  tear  : 
Far  better,  far  better  he  never  were  born 
Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 
Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 

Hark  !  he  shouteth  —  the  ancient  ene- 
my ! 
On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  his  banners  rise  ; 

They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies  ; 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 

Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 

Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

Come  along  !  we  alone  of  the  earth  are 

free  ; 
The  child  in  our  cradles  is  bolder  than 

he; 
For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of 

slaves  ? 


Oh  !  where  is  the  strength  of  slaves  ? 
He  is  weak  !  we  are  strong  :  he  a  slave, 
we  are  free  ; 
Come  along  !  we  will  dig  their  graves. 
Cho.  —  Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 
Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  free  ? 
Spur  along  !  spur  amain  !  charge  to  the 
fight: 
Charge  !  charge  to  the  fight  ! 
Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high  ! 
Shout  for  God  and  our  right  ! 
Cho.  — Shout  for  England  !  etc. 

NATIONAL  SONG. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 

Wlua-e'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearts, 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

CHORUS. 

For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive  'em, 
For  the  devil  a  whit  we  heed  'em  : 
As  for  the  French,  God  sjjced  'em 

Unto  their  heart's  desire, 
And  the  merry  devil  drive  'em 

Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 

FULL   CHORUS. 

Our  glory  is  our  freedom, 
We  lord  it  o'er  the  sea  ; 
We  are  tlu;  sons  of  freedom, 
We  are  free. 

Tliere  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives- 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids. 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

Cho.  —  For  the  French,  etc. 

DUALISMS. 

Two   bees   within   a   crystal  flowerbell 
rocked. 
Hum  a  lovelay  to  the  west-wind  at 
noontide. 


414 


THE   SEA   FAIRIES. 


Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 
,        Both  alike,  they  hum  together. 

Through  and  through  the  flowered 
heather. 
Where  in  a  creeping  cove  the  wave  un- 
shocked 
Lays  itself  calm  and  wide. 
Over  a  stream  two  birds  of  glancing 

feather 
Do  woo  each  other,  carolling  together. 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together, 

Side  by  side  ; 
Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 
Arching  blue-glossed  necks  beneath  the 
luuple  weather. 

Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown 

the  lea  aie  singing. 
As  they  gambol,  lily -garlands  ever  string- 
ing : 
Both  in   blosmwhite   silk   are 
frocked  : 
Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 
Under   a  summer  vault   of  golden 

weather : 
Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 
Side  by  side, 
MidMay's  darling  golden  lock- 
ed, 
Summer's  tanling diamond  eyed. 

"WE  ARE  FREE. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth. 

Leaning  upon  the  winged  sea, 
Breathed  low  aiound  the  rolling  earth 

With  mellow  preludes,  "We  are  free." 
The  streams  through  many  a  lilied  row 

Down -carolling  to  the  crisped  sea. 
Low-tinkled  with  a  bell-like  flow 

Atween  the  blossoms,  "We  are  free." 

THE  SEA   FAIRIES.* 

Slow  sailed  the  weary  mariners,  and 
saw 

Between  the  green  brink  and  the  run- 
ning foam 

White  limbs  unrobed  in  a  crystal  air, 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold  :  and  while  they 
mused. 

Whispering  to  eacb  other  half  in  fear. 

Shrill  music  reached  them  on  the  mid- 
dle sea. 

•  Original  form. 


Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 

away  ?     Fly  no  more  : 
Whither   away  wi'    the  singing  sail  ? 
whither  away  wi'  the  oar  ? 
Whither  away  from  the  high  gieen  field 
and  the  happy  blossomingshore  ? 
Weary  mariners,  hither  away, 

One  and  all,  one  and  all. 
Weary  mariners,  come  and  play  ; 
We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  daj^ ; 
Furl  the  sail  and  the  foam  will  fall 
From  the  jirow  !     One  and  all 
Furl  the  sail !     Diop  the  oar  ! 
Leap  ashore, 
Know  danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no 

more, 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  and  the  oar? 
Drop  the  oar, 
Leaj)  ashore, 
Fly  no  more  ! 
Whither  away  wi'  the  sail  ?  whither  away 
wi'  the  oar  ? 
Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  foun- 
tain calls  : 
Down  shower  the  gambolling  water- 
falls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  ; 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover- 
hill  swells 
High  over  the  full-toned  sea. 
Merrily  carol  the  revelling  gales 

Over  the  islands  free  : 
From    the   green    seabanks    the    rose 
down  trails 
To  the  happy  brimmed  sea. 
Come  hither,  come  hither  and  be  our 
lords. 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 
We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak 
sweet  woi'ds. 
0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glis- 
ten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  revelry ; 
0  listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glis- 
ten. 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  gold- 
en chords 
Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 
Ye  will  not  find  so  ha])])y  a  shore. 
Weary  mariners  !  all  the  world  o'er  ; 

0,  fly  no  more  ! 
Hearken  ye,  hearken  ye,  sorrow  shall 
darken  ye, 
Danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no  more', 


TO 


415 


Whither  away  ^ 
Drop  the  oar  ; 
Hither  away 
Leap  ashore  ; 
O  fly  no  more  —  no  more  : 
Whither  away,  whither   away,  whither 
away  with  the  sail  and  the  oar  I 


Ol    p€OUT€<i. 


All  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams  are 
true, 

All  visions  wild  and  strange  ; 
Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 

Unto  himself.     All  truth,  is  change, 


All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 
Have  faitii  in  that  they  dream  : 

For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 
And  all  things  flow  like  a  stream. 


There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause, 

Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shadCj 
Nor  essence  nor  eternal  laws  : 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 
But  if  1  dream  that  all  these  are. 

They  aie  to  me  for  that  1  dream  ; 
For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all. 

And  all  things  How  like  a  stream. 

Argal  —  this  very  opinion  is  only  true 
relatively  to  the  flowing  philosophers. 


POEMS   PUBLISHED   IN   THE  EDITION   OF   1833, 
AND   OMITTED   IN   LATEE  EDITIONS. 


SONNET. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit  fierce  and 

free. 
Like  some  broad  river  nishing  down  alone, 
With    the  .selfsame  impulse  wherewith 

he  was  thrown 
From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing 

lea :  — 
Which  with  increasing  might  doth  for- 
ward flee 
By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape, 

and  isle. 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 
Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a 

mile. 
Mine  be  the  Power  which  ever  to  its  sway 
Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  degrees 
May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow  ; 
Even  as  the  great  gulfstream  of  Florida 
Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 
The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico. 


TO 


All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof. 
Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  ; 

I  have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof, 
Nor  goldoji  largess  of  thy  praise, 
But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 


Shake  hands,  my  friend,  acro.ss  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I  go. 

Shake  hands  once  more  :  I  cannot  sink 
So  far  —  far  down,  but  I  shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


When,  in  the  darkness  over  me. 
The  four-handed  mole  .shall  scrape. 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree. 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape. 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 


And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray, 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  butl, 

And  through  damp  holts,  new  flushed 

with  May, 
Ring  sudden  laughters  of  the  Jay  ; 


Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will. 
And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still, 
And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low, 
And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 


If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother's  .smile 
Uudimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing  : 


416 


THE   HESPEllIDES. 


Tlien  cease,  my  friend,  a  little  wliile, 
That  I  may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  soug,  the  boast  of  spring. 


Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  that  fret  the  stones 

(If  any  sense  in  me  remains), 

Thy  words  will  be  ;  thy  cheerful  tones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


BONAPARTE. 

He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts 

of  oak, 
Madman!  —  to  chain  with  chains,  and 

bind  with  bands 
That  island  queen  that  sways  the  floods 

and  lands 
From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight 

woke, 
When  from  her  wooden  walls,  lit  by  sure 

hands. 
With  thunders,  and  Avitli  lightnings,  and 

with  smoke. 
Peal  after  jieal,  the  British  battle  broke. 
Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic  sands. 
We   taught  him   lowlier  moods,   when 

Elsiuore 
Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant  sea, 
Rocking  with  shattered  spars,  with  sud- 
den fires 
Flamed  over  :  at  Trafalgar  yet  once  more 
We  taught  him  :  late  he  learned  humility 
Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon  schooled 

with  briers. 


SONNETS. 


0  BEAUTY,    passing    beauty  !    sweetest 
Sweet  ! 
How  canst  thou  let  me  waste  my  youth 
in  sighs  ? 
'i  only  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet. 

Thou  knowest  I  dare  not  look  into 
thine  eyes. 
Might  I  but  kiss  thy  hand  !     I  dare  not 
fold 
My  arms  about  thee  —  scarcely  dare  to 
speak. 
And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and  bold, 
As  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy  blessed 
cheek. 


Methinks  if  I  should  kiss  thee,  no  control 
Within  the  thrilling  brain  could  keep 

afloat 
The  subtle  spirit.    Even  while  I  spoke, 
Tlie  bare  word  kiss  hath  made  my  inner 
soul 
To  tremble  like  a  lutestring,  ere  the 

note 
Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it  broke. 


But  were  1  loved,  as  I  desire  to  be, 
What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the 

earth, 
And  range  ofevil between  death andbirth, 
That  1  sliould  fear,  —  if  I  were  loved  by 

thee  ? 
All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of  pain 
Clear  Love  would  ])ierce  and  cleave,  if 

thou  wert  mine. 
As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the 

main. 
Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through 

bitter  brine. 
'Twere  joy,  not  fear,  clasped  hand-in- 
hand  M'ith  thee, 
To  Avait  for  death  —  umte  • —  careless  of 

all  ills, 
Apart  upon  a  mountain,  though  the  surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a  thousand 

hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the 

gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 

THE  HESPERIDES. 

"  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three. 
That  sing  about  tlie  golden  tree." 

Comtts. 

The  North-wind  fall'n,  in  the  new-starred 

night 
Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays, 
Between  the  southern  and  the  western 

Horn, 
H  card  neither  warbling  of  the  nightingale, 
Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 
Blown  seaward  from  the  shore  ;  but  from 

a  slope 
Tiiat  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlantic 

blue, 
Beneath  a  highland  leaning  down  a  weight 
Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar  shade, 
Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a  dream, 
Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer  sea. 


THE  HESPERIDES. 


417 


SONG. 


The  golden  apjile,  the  j^olden  apple,  the 

liallo>ved  fruit, 
Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily. 
Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 
Round  about  all  is  mute. 
As  the  snow-Held  on  the  inountain-peak.s. 
As  the  sand-held  at  the  mountaiu-loot. 
Crocodiles  in  biiny  creeks 
Sleep  and  stir  not  :  all  is  mute. 
If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  measure, 
We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure. 
Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 
Laugh  not  loudly  :  watch  the  treasure 
Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 
In  a  corner  wisdom  whispers.     Five  and 

three 
(Let  it  not  be  preacheil  abroad)  make  an 

awful  mystery. 
For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music 

bloweth  ; 
Evermore  it  is  born  anew  ; 
And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  floweth, 
From  the  root 
Drawn  in  the  dark, 
Up  to  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark. 
Liquid  gold,  honeysweet,  thro'  and  thro'. 
Keen-eyed  Sister.s,  singing  airily. 
Looking  warily 
Every  way. 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day. 
Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take  it 

away. 


Round   about   the   hallowed   fruit  -  tret 

curled  — 
Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  tlw 

wind,  without  stop. 
Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop. 
For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 
If  he  waken,  we  waken. 
Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 
If  he  sleep,  we  sleep, 
Droiiping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 
If  the  golden  ap]ile  be  taken, 
The  world  will  be  overwise. 
Five  links,  a  golden  cliain,  are  we, 
Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three. 
Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 


Father  Hesper,  Father  Hesper,  watch, 

'  watch,  night  and  day, 

I  Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be  healed, 

'  The  glory  unsealed. 
The  golden  apple  stolen  away. 
And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 
Look  from  west  to  east  along  : 
Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus 

is  bold  and  strong. 
Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  waters 

call ; 
Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 
Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles, 
Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 
All  things  are  not  told  to  all. 
Half-round  the  mantling  night  is  drawn, 
Purple  fringed  with  even  and  dawn. 
Helper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hateth 
morn. 


Father  Hesper,   Father  Hesper,   watch, 

watch,  ever  and  aye, 
Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a  silver 

eye. 
Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight ; 
Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change, 

and  races  die  ; 
Honor  comes  with  mystery  ; 
Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 
Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 
How  many  the  mystic  fruit-tree  holds 
Lest  the  red-combed  dragon  slumber 
Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 
Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and 

the  golden  apple  be  stol'n  away, 
For  his  ancient  heart  is  drunk  with  over- 

watchings  nigh*'  and  day, 


Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redolent 

breatli 
Of  this  warm  sea-wind  ripeneth. 
Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep  ; 
But  the  land-wind  wandereth. 
Broken  by  the  highland-steep. 
Two  streams  upon  the  vielet  deep  ; 
For  the  western  .sun  and  the  western  star. 
And  the  low  west-wind,  breathing  afai, 
The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 
Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright  ; 
Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright 

and  blest. 
Mellowed  in  a  land  of  rest ; 
Watch  it  warily  day  and  night  ; 
All  good  things  are  in  the  west. 
Till  mid  noon  the  cool  east  light 
Is  shut  out  by  the  tall  hillbrow  ; 


418 


fSONG. 


But  when  the  full-faced  sunset  yellowly 
Stays  on  the  flowering  arcli  of  the  bough, 
The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mellowly, 
Golden-kernelled,  golden-cored, 
Sunset-ripened  above  on  the  tree. 
The  world  is  wasted  with  iire  and  sword. 
But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the  sea. 
Five  links,  a  golden  chain  are  we, 
Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 
Daughters  three, 
Bound  about 

The  gnarled  liole  of  the  charmed  tree. 
The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the 

hallowed  fruit. 
Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 
"Watch  it  warily, 
Singing  airily, 
StandiuJ  about  the  charmed  root. 


ROSALIND. 


My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes. 

Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of 

rai>id  flight, 
Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies. 
My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 
My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whith- 
er, 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather, 
Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 
Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  ? 


The  quick  lark's  closest-carolled  strains, 
The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea. 
The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 
The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea. 
The  leai)ing  stream,  the  very  wind, 
That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  May, 
To  stoop  the  cowslij*  to  the  plains, 
Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  fakcon  Rosalind. 
You  care  not  for  another's  pains. 
Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy. 
Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 
Life  shoots  and  glances  thro'  your  veins. 
And  flashes  off"  a  thousand  ways 
Through  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 
Your  hawkeyes  are  keen  and  bright. 
Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  througli  with  pointed  light ; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a  dancing  :ill, 


And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter, 
Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 


Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 
My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind  : 
Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies  ; 
Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will ; 
But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes. 
That  care  not  whom  they  kill. 
And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view. 
Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 
Touched  with  sunrise.     We  must  bind 
And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 
Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 
And  clip  your  Mings,  and  make  you  love  i 
Wlien  Me  have  lured  you  from  above, 
And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day 

or  night. 
From  north  to  south  ; 
Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords, 
And  kiss  away  the  bitter  Mords 
From  off  your  rosy  mouth.* 


SONG. 

Who  can  say 

Wliy  To-day 

To-moriow  Mill  be  yesterday  'i 

Who  can  tell 

•  AUTHOR'S  NOTE.  —  I'crliaps  the  following  lines  may 
be  .nllowed  to  stand  as  a  separate  poem  ;  orig;inaIly 
they  made  part  of  the  text,  where  they  were  manifestly 
superfluous. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Bold,  subtle,  careless  Rosalind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  know  no  strife 

Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear  ; 

To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life, 

The  life  before,  the  life  behind. 

In  the  ear,  from  far  and  near, 

Chinieth  musically  clear. 

My  falcon-hearted  Rosalind, 

1-ull-sailed  before  a  vitjorous  wind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 

For  others'  woes,  but  overleap 

All  the  petty  shocks  and  fears 

That  trouble  life  in  early  years. 

With  a  flash  of  frolic  scorn 

And  keen  delight,  that  never  falls 

Away  from  freshness,  self-upborne 

With  such  gladness  as,  whenever 

The  fresh-flushing  springtime  calls 

To  the  flooding  waters  cool, 

■young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn. 

Up  and  down  a  rapid  river, 

Leap  the  little  waterf.alls 

That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool, 

My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 

Hath  daring  fancies  of  her  own. 

Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day. 

Fresli  as  the  early  sea-smell  blown 

Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Because  no  shadow  on  you  falls. 

Think  you  hearts  .are  tennisballs 

To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind! 


SONNET. 


419 


Wliy  to  smell 

The  violet  recalls  the  dewy  prime 

Of  youth  and  buried  time  ? 

The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme. 


KATE. 

I  KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 
Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black 
hair, 
Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill. 
As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 
From  the  bosom  of  a  iiill. 
'T  is  Kate  —  she  sayeth  what  she  will  : 
For  Kate  liath  an  unbridled  tongue, 
Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a  harp. 
Her  heart  is  like  a  throbbing  star. 
Kate  hath  a  spirit  ever  strung 

Like  a  new  bow,  and  bright  and  sharp, 

As  edges  of  the  scymitar. 
Whence  shall  she  take  a  fitting  mate  ? 
For  Kate  no  common  love  will  feel; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 
As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel. 

Kate  saith  "  the  world'is  void  of  might." 
Kate  saith  "  tlie  men  are  gilded  Mies." 
Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my  vows  ; 
Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers'  sighs. 
I  would  I  were  an  armed  knight, 
Far  famed  for  well-won  enterprise, 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 
The  garland  of  new-wreathed  emprise  : 
For  in  a  moment  I  would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight. 
And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right. 
In  dreaming  of  my  4ady's  eyes. 

Oh  !  Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and 
fierce  ; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 
She  cannot  find  a  fitting  mate. 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  ON  HE.\RING  OF  THE  OUT- 
BREAK OF  THE  POLISH  INSURREC- 
TION. 

Blow  ye  the  trumpet,  gather  from  afar 
The  hosts  to  battle  :  be  not  bought  and 

sold. 
Arise,  brave  Poles,  the  boldest  of  the  bold  ; 
Break  through  your  iron  shackles —  fling 

them  far. 
0  for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the  Czar 


Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts 

cold  ; 
When  even   to  Moscow's   cupolas  were 

rolled 
The  growing  murmurs  of  the  Polish  war ! 
Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze   out 

more 
Than  when  from  Sobisski,  clan  by  clan. 
The  Moslem  myriads  fell,  and  fled  before — 
Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the  Tartar 

Khan  ; 
Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic  shore 
Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


SONNET 

ON  THE  RESULT  OF  THE   LATE  RUSSIAN 
INVASION   OF   POLAND. 

How  long,  0  God,  shall  men  be  ridden 

down. 
And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and  least 
Of  men  '     The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not 

ceased 
To  quiver,  though  her  sacred  blood  doth 

drown 
The  fields ;  and  out  of  every  mouldering 

town 
Cries  to  Tliee,  lest  brute  Power  be  in- 
creased. 
Till  that  o'ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress   his   ample    bound   to   some 

new  crown  :  — 
Cries  to  Thee,  "Lord,  how    long  shall 

these  things  be  ? 
How  longshallthe  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region  ? "     Us,  0  Just  and 

Good, 
Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn 

in  three  ; 
Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should  aid 

the  right  — 
A  matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood  ! 

SONNET. 

As  when  with  downcast  eyes  we  muse  and 

brood, 
And  ebb  into  a  former  life,  or  seem 
To  lapse  far  back  in  a  confused  dream 
To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 
If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his 

chair. 
Ever  the  wonder  waxeth  more  and  more, 
So  that  we  say, ' '  All  this  hath  been  before, 


420 


A  FEAGME]!TT. 


All  this  Jiath  been,  I  know  not  when  or 

where." 
So,  friend,  when  first  I  looked  upon  your 

face, 
Our  thought  gave  answer,  each  to  each, 

so  true. 
Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each  — 
Altho'  1  knew  not  in  what  time  or  place, 
Methought  that  1  had  often  met  with  you, 
4.nd  each  liad  lived  in  the  other's  mind 

and  speech. 

O   DARLING   ROOM. 


O  DARLING  room,  my  heart's  delight 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight, 
With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white. 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite, 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright. 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


For  I  the  Nonnenwerth  have  seen, 
And  Oberwinter's  vineyards  green, 


Musical  Lurlei ;  and  between 
The  hills  to  Bingen  have  I  been, 
Bingen  in  Darmstadt,  where  the  Rhene 
Curves  toward  Mentz,  a  woody  scene. 


Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight, 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A  little  room  so  ex([uisite, 

With  two  such  couches  soft  and  white  ', 

Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright, 

Wherein  to  read,  Avherein  to  write. 


TO   CHRISTOPHER  NORTH. 

You  did  late  review  my  lays, 

Crust}'  Christopher  ; 
You  did  mingle  blame  and  pi-aise. 

Rusty  Christopher. 
When  I  learnt  from  whom  it  came, 
I  forgave  you  all  the  blame. 

Musty  Christopher  ; 
I  could  not  forgive  the  praise. 

Fusty  Christopher. 


FUGITIVE  POEMS. 


NO  MORE.* 

0  SAD    No    More!    0    sweet    No 

More  ! 
O  strange  No  More  ! 
By  a  mossed  brookbank  on  a  stone 

1  smelt  a  wildweed  flower  alone  ; 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears. 
And  both  my  eyes  gushed  out  with 

tears. 
Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone  before, 
Low-buried  fathom  deep  beneath  with 

thee,  No  More  ! 


ANACREONTICS.* 

With  roses  musky-breathed. 
And  drooping  daffodilly. 
And  silver-leaved  lily. 
And  ivy  darkly-wreathed, 
I  wove  a  crown  before  her, 
For  her  I  love  .so  dearly, 

"  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual,  for  1831 


A  garland  for  Lenora. 

With  a  silken  cord  I  bound  it. 

Lenora,  laughing  clearly 

A  light  and  thrilling  laughter, 

About  her  forehead  wound  it. 

And  loved  me  ever  after. 


A   FRAGMENT.* 

Where  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which 

stood 
In  the  midnoon  the  glory  of  old  Rhodes, 
A  perfect  Idol  with  profulgent  brows 
Far-sheening  down  the   purple   seas  to 

those 
Who  sailed  from   Mizraim    underneath 

the  star 
Named  of  the  Dragon  — and   between 

whose  limbs 
Of  brassy  vastness  broad-blown  Argosies 
Drave  into  haven  ?  Yet  endure  unscathed 
Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyramids 

•  From  the  Gem,  a  literary  annual,  for  tSjl- 


THE   NEW   TIMON   AND   THE    POETS. 


421 


Broad-based  amid  the  fleeting  sands,  and 

sloi)ed 
Into  the  slumberous  summer  noon  ;  but 

where. 
Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 
Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  undis- 

cerned  ? 
Thy  placid  Sphinxes  brooding  o'er  the 

Nile? 
Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes, 
Awful  Mcnnioiiian  countenances  calm 
Looking  athwart  the  burning  Hats,  far  off 
Seen  by  the  high-necked  camel  on  the  verge 
Journeying  southward  ?     Where  are  thy 

monuments 
Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  Anakini 
Over theircrowned brethren  On  and  Oph  ? 
Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips  are 

kist 
With  earliest  rays,  that  from  his  mother's 

eyes 
Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 
Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  ears  of 

morn 
Clear  melody  flattering  the  crisped  Nile 
By  columned  Thebes.    Old  Memphis  hath 

gone  down  : 
The  Pharaohs  are  no  more  :  somewhere 

in  death 
They  sleep  with  staring  eyes  and  gilded 

lips. 
Wrapped  round  with  spiced  cerements 

in  old  grots 
Rock-hewn  and  sealed  for  ever. 


SONNET.* 

Me   my   own    fate    to    lasting    sorrow 
doonieth  : 
Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transi- 
tory : 
Thy  spirit,  circled  with  a  living  glory. 
In  summer  still  a  summer  joy  resumeth. 
Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy gloometli, 
Like  a  lone  cypress,  through  the  twi- 
light hoary. 
From  an   old   garden   where  no   flower 
bloonieth. 
One  cypress  on  an  island  promontory. 
But  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine, 
As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  follows 
day  : 
But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 
Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far  away. 

•  Friendship's  Offering,  1633. 


I  am  so  dark,  alas  !  and  thou  so  bright, 
When  we  two  meet  there  's  never  perfect 
light. 


SONNET.* 

Check  every  outHash,  every  ruder  sally 
Of  thought   and  speech  ;   speak   lev. 
and  give  up  wholly 
Thy  spirit  to  niild-niinded  melancholy  ; 
This  is  the  jilace.    Through  yonder  pop- 
lar valley 
Below  the    blue-green    river  windeth 
slowly  ; 
But  in  the  middle  of  the  sombre  valley 
The  crisped  waters  whisper  musically. 
And  all  the  haunted  place  is  dark  and 
holy. 
The  nightingale,  with  long  and  low  pre- 
amble, 
Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of  solemn 

larches, 
And  in  and  out  the  woodbine's  flowery 
arches 
The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton 
gambol. 
And  all  the  wliite-stemmed  piuewood 

slept  above  — 
When  in  this  valley  first  I  told  my  love. 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE.t 

Sure  never  j'et  was  Antelope 

Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 
Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 

Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 
How  lightly  wliirls  the  skipping-rope  ! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly  ! 
Go,  get  you  gone,  you  muse  and  mope-  - 

I  hate  that  silly  sigh. 
Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope. 

Or  tell  me  how  to  die. 
There,  take  it,  take  my  skipping-rope, 

And  hang  yourself  thereby. 


THE   NEW   TIMON   AND   THE 
POETS.  J 

We  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare's  art, 
And  those  fine  curses  which  he  spoke  ; 

The  old  Tinion,  with  his  noble  heart. 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

*  Friendship's  Offering.  1833.  .  . 

t  Omitted  from  the  edition  of  1842. 

J  Publislied  in  Punch,  Feb.  1846,  signed  "  Alcibiades.' 


422 


BKITONS,  GUARD   YOUR   OWN. 


So  died  the  Old  :  here  comes  the  Xew. 

Regard  him  :  a  familiar  face  : 
I  thought  we  knew  him  :  What,  it 's  you, 

The   padded   man  —  that   wears   the 
stays  • — 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote  ! 

A  Lion,  you,  that  made  a  noise. 
And  shook  a  mane  en  pcqullotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too  ; 

You  failed,  Sir :  therefore  now  you  turn, 
To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 

As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes, 

And  careless  what  this  hour  may  bring, 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes 
And  Brummkls,  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 
And  waive  a  little  of  his  claim  ; 

To  have  the  deep  Poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  yon,  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please  ; 

You  never  look  but  half  content  ; 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease. 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with  fears, 

You  cannot  let  a  body  be  : 
It 's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

"  They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me." 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt  — 

A  dapper  boot  —  a  little  hand  — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  ? 

You  talk  of  tinsel  !  why,  we  see 
The  old  mark  ofrouge  upon  your  cheeks. 

Vou  prate  of  Nature  !  you  are  he 
That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  TiMON  you  !  Nay,  nay,  for  shame  : 
It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest  — 

The  fierce  old  man  —  to  take  his  name, 
You  bandbox.     Off,  and  let  him  rest. 


STANZAS.* 

What  time  I  wasted  youthful  hours. 
One  of  the  shining  winged  powers, 
Show'd  me  vast  cliffs  with  crown  of  towers. 

•  The  Keepsake.     1851. 


As  towards  the  gracious  light  I  bow'd, 
They  seem'd  higli  palaces  and  proud, 
Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  "The  labor  is  not  small  ; 
Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all  :  — 
Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall  !  " 


SONNET 

TO  WILLIAM   CHARLES  MACREADT.* 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night  we 
part. 
Full-handed  thunders  often^have  con- 

fest 
Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the  pub- 
lic breast. 
We  thank  thee  with  one  voice,  and  from 

the  heart. 
Farewell,    Macready ;   since   this   night 
we  part. 
Go,  take  thine  honors  home  :   rank 

with  the  best, 
Garrick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and  the 
rest 
Who  made  a  nation  purer  thro'  their  art. 
Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die. 
Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  panto- 
mime, 
And   those   gilt   gauds    men-chUdren 
swarm  to  see. 
Farewell,  Macready  ;  moral,  gi-ave,  sub- 
lime. 
OurShakespeare'sblandanduniversaleye 
Dwells  jileased,  thro'  twice  a  hundred 
years,  on  thee. 

BRITONS,    GUARD  YOUR  OWN.+ 

RlSE,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not 

dead  ; 
The  world's  last  tempest  darkens  over- 
head ; 
The  Pope  has  bless'd  him  ; 
The  Church  caress'd  him  ; 
He  triumphs ;  maybe  we  shall  stand  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plunder'd 

gold, 
By  lying  priests  the  peasants'  votes  con- 

troU'd. 

•  Read  by  Mr.  John  Forster  at  a  dinner  given  to  Mr 
Macready,  March  i.  1851,  on  his  retirement  from  th( 
-.tage. 

t  The  Examiner,  1852. 


THE   THIRD    OF   FEBRUARY,    1852. 


423 


All  freedom  vauisli'd, 
The  true  iiieii  bauish'd, 
He  triumphs ;  maybe  we  shall  stand  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers   we  —  sweet    Peace   we   all 

desire — 
Peace-lovers  we  —  but  who  can  trust  a 
liar?  — 
Peace-lovers,  haters 
Of  shameless  traitors. 
We  hate  not  France,  but  this  man's  heart 
of  stone, 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has  lost 

her  voice. 
This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call 
her  choice. 
By  tricks  and  spying, 
By  craft  and  lying, 
And  murder  was  her  freedom  overthrown. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

"Vive  I'Emiiereur"  may  follow  by  and 

by; 
"God  save  the  Queen    is  here  a  truer  cry. 
God  save  the  Nation, 
The  toleration, 
And  the  free  speech  that  makes  a  Briton 
known. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome's  dearest  daughter  now  is  captive 

France, 
The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on  his 
chance, 
Would  unrelenting, 
Kill  all  dissenting, 
Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships   across    Biscayan 

tides, 
To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken  sides. 
Why  waste  they  yonder 
Their  idle  thunder? 
Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a  foreign 
throne  ? 
Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long  ago. 
We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength, 
the  bow. 
Now  practice,  yeomen, 
Like  those  bowmen, 
Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have 
flown. 
Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 


His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  in- 
cline 
To  take  Sardinia,  Belgium,  or  the  Rhine 

Shall  we  stand  idle, 

Nor  seek  to  bridle 
His  rude  aggressions,  till  we  stand  alone? 

Make  their  cause  your  own. 

Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour 

prevail, 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear  the 
tale  : 
No  man  to  bear  it  — 
Swear  it  !  we  swear  it  ! 
Although  we  tight   the    banded   world 
alone, 
We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY,1852.* 

My  lords,  we  heard  you  speak  ;  you  told 
us  all 
That  England's  honest  censure  went 
too  far ; 

That  our  free  press  should  cease  to  brawl, 
Not   sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into 
war. 

It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords. 

To  fling  whate'er  we  felt,  not  fearing,  in- 
to words. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  this  child 
of  Hell, 
Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse  of 
the  wise  ; 
But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so  well. 
We  dare  not,  e'en  by  silence,  sanction 
lies. 
It  might  safe  be  our  censures  to  withdraw  ; 
And  yet,  my  lords,  not  well  ;  there  is  a 
higher  law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak  free, 
Though  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  us 

break  ; 
No  little  German  state  are  we, 

But  the  one  voice  in  Europe  ;  we  tnust 

speak  ; 
That   if    to-night    our  greatness    were 

struck  dead, 
There  might  remain  some  record  of  the 

things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be  bold. 
Our  Britain  cannot  salve  a  tyrant  o'er. 

•  The  Examiner,  1852,  and  siffned  "  Morlin." 


424 


HANDS   ALL   ROUND. 


Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll'd 

On  her  and  us  anil  onrs  for  evermore. 

What  I  have  we  fought  for  freedom  from 
our  prime, 

At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a  pub- 
lic crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ?  our  own  we  never 

feared. 
From  our   first  Charles   by  force   we 

wrung  our  claims, 
Prick'd  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear'd, 
And   flung  the  Ijurden   of  the  second 

James. 
I  say  we  never  fear'd  !  and  as  for  these, 
We  broke  them  on  the  laud,  we  drove 

them  on  the  seas. 

And  you,  my  lords,  j^ou  make  the  people 
muse, 
In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons'  breed — 
Were   those  your  sires  who   fought   at 
Lewes  ? 
Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runnymede  ? 
0  fall'n  nobility,  that,  overawed. 
Would  lisp  in  honey'd  M'hispers  of  this 
monstrous  fraud. 

JVe  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were 

sin. 
Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble 

hosts  — 
If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked 

coasts  ! 
They  knew  the  precious  things  they  had 

to  guard  : 
For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant  one 

hard  word. 

Though  niggard  throats  of  Manchester 

may  bawl, 
What  England  was,  shall  her  true  sons 

forget  ? 
We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all, 

But  some  love  England,  and  her  honor 

yet. 
And  the.se  in  our  Thennopylaj  shall  stand, 
And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor  of 

the  land. 


HANDS  ALL  EOUND.  * 

First  drink  a  health,  this  solemn  night, 
A  health  to  England,  every  guest ; 

•  The  Examiner,  1852,  and  sig*ned  '*  Merlin." 


That  man  's  the  best  cosmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 
Ma}'  freedom's  oak  for  ever  live 

With  stronger  life  from  da}^  to  day  ; 
That  man 's  the  best  Conservative 
Who  lops  the  mouldered  branch  away. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  gi-eat  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my 
friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 

A  health  to  Europe's  honest  men  ! 
Heaven  guard  them  from  her  tyrants' 
jails  ! 
From  wronged  Poerio's  noisome  den, 

From  iron  limbs  and  tortured  nails  ! 
We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings, 

The  Russian  whips  and  Austrian  rods — 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things  ; 
Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers,  Gods. 

Yet  hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  Europe's  better  health  we  drink,  my 
friends. 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round  ! 

What  health  to  France,  if  France  be  she. 
Whom  martial  progress  only  channs? 
Yet  tell  her  —  better  to  be  free 

Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 
Her  frantic  city's  flashing  heats 

But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 
Why  change  the  titles  of  your  streets  ? 
You  fools,  you  '11  want  them  all  again. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  France,  the  wiser  France,  we  drink, 
my  friends. 
And  the  gi-eatname  of  England,  round 
and  round. 

Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood. 
We  know  thee  and  we  love  thee  best, 
For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood  ? 
Should  war's  mad  blast  again  be  blown. 

Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powei's 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone, 

But  let  tliy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tyrant'.s  cause  confound  ! 
To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my 
friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 


ON   A   SPITEFUL   LETTER. 


425 


0  rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons, 

When  war  againstour  freedom  springs  ! 
0  speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns  ! 

They  can  be  understood  by  khigs. 
You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 
That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools  ; 
Our  freedom's  foemen  are  her  foes, 
She  com]>rehends  the  race  slje  rules. 

Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  tj'rant's  cause  confound  ! 
To  our  dear  kinsman  in  the  West,   my 
friends. 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round 
and  round. 


THE   WAR.* 

There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar, 

Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the 
Jay, 
Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war, 
Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 
Form  !  form  !  R)Henu;n  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  tlie  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns  ! 

Be  not  gull'd  by  a  despot's  plea! 
Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns  ? 
How  should  a  despot  set  men  free  ? 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

Let  your  Reforms  for  a  moment  go. 

Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good  aims. 
Better  a  rotten  borough  or  so. 

Than  a  rotten  fleet  or  a  city  in  flames  I 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die  ! 

Fomi   in    Freedom's   name   and    the 
Queen's  ! 
rrue,  that  we  have  a  faithful  ally. 
But   only  the  Devil   knows  what  he 
means. 
Form  !  form  !  Riflemen  form  ! 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 
T. 

•  London  Times,  May  ft  1859, 


ON   A   SPITEFUL   LETTER.* 

• 
Here,  it  is  here — the  close  of  the  year, 

And  with  it  a  spiteful  letter. 
My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much 
wrong. 
For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0  foolish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard. 
If  men  neglect  your  pages  ? 

1  think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine : 

1  hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

This  fallen  leaf,  is  n't  fame  as  brief  ? 

My  rhymes  may  have  been  the  stronger. 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide. your  lot ; 

I  last  but  a  moment  longer. 

0  faded  leaf,  is  n't  fame  as  brief? 

What  room  is  here  for  a  hater  ? 
Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener  leaf. 

For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I  —  is  n't  that  your  cry  ? 

And  I  shall  live  to  see  it. 
Well,  if  it  be  .so,  so  it  is,  you  know  ; 

And  if  it  be  so  —  so  be  it ! 

O  summer  leaf,  is  n't  life  as  brief  ? 

Bat  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 
.\nd  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  evergreen: 

1  hate  the  spites  and  the  follifcs. 


1865-1866.t 

1  STOOD  on  a  tower  in  the  wet. 
And  New  Y^ear  and  Old  Year  met, 
.\nd  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing  ; 
.\nd    I    said,    ' '  0   years   that   meet   in 

tears. 
Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  know- 
ing ? 
Science  enough  and  exploring, 
Wanderers  coming  and  going, 
Matter  enough  for  deploring, 
But  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing  V 
Seas  at  my  feet  were  flowing. 
Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring, 
Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing. 
And  New  Year  blowing  and  roaring. 

•  Once  a  Week,  January  4,  1868. 
t  Good  Words,  March,  1868. 


426 


THE  WINDOW. 


THE    WINDOW 

OR,    THE    SONGS    OF    THE    WRENS. 


V/ORDS  WRITTEN   FOR  MUSIC. 

THE   MUSIC    BY    ARTHUR    SULLIVAN. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a  little  song-cycle,  German 
fashion,  for  him  to  exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting 
such  old  songs  as  "  Orpheus  with  his  lute,"  and  1  drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the 
old  style,  a  puppet  whose  almost  only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that  it  can  dance  to  Mr. 
Sullivan's  instrument.  I  am  sorry  that  my  four-year-old  puppet  should  have  to 
dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days  ;  but  the  music  is  now  completed, 
and  I  am  hound  by  my  promise.  ^_  Tennyson. 

December,  1870.  


I. 

ON  THE  HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly  ! 
Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down 
on  the  plain. 
A  jewel,  a  jewel  dear  to  a  lover's  eye  ! 
O  is  it  the  brook,  or  a  pool,  or  her  win- 
dow-pane. 
When  the  winds  ure  up  in  the  morn- 
ing? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above, 
And  winds  and  light  s  and  shadows  that 
cannot  be  still. 
All  running  on  ore  way  to  the  home 
of  my  love. 
You  are  all  running  on,  and  I  stand  on 
the  slope  of  the  hill. 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning ! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase  ! 
And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as 
quick,  ever  on,  on,  on. 
0  lights,  are  you  flying  over  her  sweet 
little  face  ? 
And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are 
come  and  gone, 
When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing ! 

Follow  them  down  the  slope ! 
And  I  follow  them  down  to  the  window- 
pane  of  my  dear, 


And   it  brightens  and   darkens   and 
brightens  like  my  hope, 
And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and  dark- 
ens like  my  fear, 
And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. 


AT    THE    WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 
Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine  I 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 
Trail  and  twine  and  clasp  and  kiss, 
Ki*--",,  kiss  ;  and  make  her  a  bower 
Al   of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a  flower, 
Droji  me  a  flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine, 
Cannot  a  flower,  a  flower,  be  mine  ? 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis, 
Drop  me  a  flower,  a  flower,  to  kiss. 
Kiss,  kiss  —  And  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a  flower,  a  flower, 
Dropt,  a  flower. 


III. 
GONE  I 

Gone  ! 

Gone  till  the  end  of  the  year, 
Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her  and 
left  me  in  shadow  here  1 


THE   WINDOW. 


427 


Gone  —  flitted  away, 
Taken  the  stars  from  the  nigbt  and  the 

sun  from  the  day  ! 
Gone,  and  a  cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a 

storm  in  the  air  ! 
Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted  I 

know  not  where  ! 
Down  in  the  south  is  a  flash  and  a  groan  : 

she  is  there  !  she  is  there  ! 


IV. 

WINTER. 

The  frost  is  here, 

And  fuel  is  dear, 

And  woods  are  sear, 

And  fires  burn  clear. 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going  year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 

The  blue  woodlouse,  and  the  plump  dor- 
mouse, 

And  the  bees  are  still'd,  and  the  flies  are 
kill'd, 

And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the 
house, 

But  not  into  mine. 

Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

The  woods  ara  all  the  searer. 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer, 

The  fires  ai-e  all  the  clearer. 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer. 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the 

earth, 
But  not  into  mine. 


V. 

SPRING. 

Birds'  love  and  bird.s'  song 

Flying  here  and  there. 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love. 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair  ! 
Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 

Passing  with  the  weather, 
Men's  song  and  men's  love. 

To  love  once  and  forever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love. 
And  women's  love  and  men's  ! 

And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of  gold, 
You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens  ! 


You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We  '11  be  birds  of  a  feather, 
I  '11  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens. 

And  all  iu  a  nest  together. 


VI. 

THE    LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet. 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy  ? 

Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I  write  to  her  ?  shall  I  go  ? 
Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by  ? 

Somebody  said  that  she  'd  say  no  ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she  '11  say  ay  t 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask'd  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  shy  of  the  shy  ? 
Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace. 

Fly! 
Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  — 

'Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye  : 
Somebody  said  that  she  'd  say  no  ; 

Somebody  knows  that  she  '11  say  ay  1 


VII. 

NO    ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the 
rain  ! 
Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
Andnever  a  glimpse  of  her  window-pane ! 
And  I  may  die  but  the  grass  will  grow. 
And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I  am  gone, 
And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  world 
will  go  on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres, 
No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm. 

Ay  is  life  for  a  hundred  years, 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm, 

And  when  I  am  there  and  dead  and  gone, 

The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will 
go  on. 

The  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and  the 
wet  ! 
Wet  west  wind,  how  you  blow,  you 
blow  ! 
And  never  a  line  from  my  lady  yet  ! 

Is  it  ay  or  no  ?  is  it  ay  or  no  ? 
Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I  am  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may 
go  on. 


428 


THE  WINDOW. 


VIII. 

NO    ANSWER. 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb  : 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come, 

Love  will  come  but  once  a  life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass  I 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  grass  : 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 
Love  me  now,  you  '11  love  me  then  : 

Love  can  love  but  once  a  life. 


THE    ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 
Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet ! 
Must  I  take  you  and  break  you, 
Two  little  hands  that  meet  ? 
I  must  take  you,  and  break  you, 
And  loving  hands  must  part  — 
Take,  take  —  break,  break  — 
Break  —  you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 
Break,  break,  and  all 's  done. 


ix» 


AY! 

Be  many,  all  birds,  to-day. 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never  were 
merry  before, 
Be  merry  in  heaven,  0  larks,   and  far 
away. 
And  merry  forever  and  ever,  and  one 
day  more. 

Why? 
For  it 's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 

Look,  look,  how  he  flits. 

The  fire-crown'd  king  of  the  wrens, 
from  out  of  the  pine  ! 
Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom,  the 
mad  little  tits  ! 
"  Cuck-oo  !    Cuck-oo  !  "    was   ever   a 
May  so  fine  ? 

Why? 
For  it 's  easy  to  find  a  rhyme. 

0  meny  the  linnet  and  dove, 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and  throstle, 
and  have  your  desire  ! 


0  merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten  the 
wings  of  love, 
And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrena 
with  a  crown  of  fire. 
Why? 
For  it 's  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 

X. 

WHEN? 

SuK  comes,  moon  comes, 

Time  slips  away. 
Sun  sets,  moon  sets, 

Love,  fix  a  day. 

"  A  year  hence,  a  year  hence." 
"  We  shall  both  be  gray  " 

"  A  month  hence,  a  month  hence." 
"  Far,  far  away." 

"A  week  hence,  a  week  hence." 

"Ah,  the  long  delay." 
"  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little, 

You  shall  fix  a  day." 

"To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow, 
And  that 's  an  age  away." 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun, 
And  honor  all  the  day. 


MARRIAGE    MORNING. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth, 

You  send  a  flash  to  the  sun. 
Here  is  tlie  golden  close  of  love, 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 
0  the  woods  and  the  meadows, 

Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 
Stiles  where  we  stay'd  to  be  kind, 

Meadows  in  which  we  met  ! 
Light,  so  low  in  the  vale, 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar  : 
For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love, 

And  you  are  his  morning  star. 
Flash,  i  am  coming,  I  come. 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood  : 
0  lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  hearts 

Into  my  heart  and  my  blood  ! 
Heart,  are  you  gi-eat  enough 

For  a  love  that  never  tires  ? 
0  heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love  5 

I  have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 
Over  the  thorns  and  briers, 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles. 
Over  the  world  to  the  end  of  it 

Flash  for  a  million  miles. 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


429 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his 

moods 
Had  made  inook-knight  of  Aitliur's  Table 

Round, 
At  Camelot,  high  above   the   yellowing 

woods. 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the  Hall. 
And  toward  him   from   the    Hall,  with 

harp  in  hand. 
And  from  the  crown  thereof  a  carcanet 
Of  i-uby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday. 
Came  Tristram,  saying,  "Why  skip  ye 

so,  Sir  Fool  ? " 

For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  ridingonce 
Far  down  beneath  a  winding  wall  oi'  rock 
Heard   a  child  wail.     A  stump   of  oak 

half-dead. 
From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of  carven 

snakes 
Clutch'd  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro' 

mid-air 
Bearing  an  eagle's  nest :  and  thro'  the  tree 
Rush'd  ever  a  rainy  wind,  and  thro'  the 

wind 
Pierced  ever  a  child's  cry  :  and  crag  and 

tree 
Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous 

ne.st. 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her  neck. 
And  all  unscarr'd  from  beak  or  talon, 

brought 
A  maiden  babe  ;  which  Arthur  pitying 

took. 
Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear  :  the 

Queen 
But  coldly  accpxiescing,  in  her  white  arms 
Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly, 
And  named  it  Nestling ;  so  forgot  her- 
self 
A  moment,  and  her  cares  ;  till  that  young 

life 
Being  smitten  in  mid-heaven  with  mortal 

cold 
Past  from  her  ;  and  in  time  the  carcanet 
Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of  the 

child  : 
So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 
"  Take    thou   the  jewels   of  this   dead 

innocence, 
And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a  toumey- 

prize. " 


To  whom  the  King,   "  Peace  to  thine 

eagle-borne 
Dead    nestling,    and    this    honor   after 

death. 
Following  thy  will  !  but,  0  my  Queen,  1 

muse 
Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  >ieck,  oi 

zone. 
Those  diamonds  that  I  rescued  from  the 

tarn. 
And  Lancelot  won,  methought,  for  thee 

to  wear." 

' '  Would  rather  ye  had  let  them  fall," 

she  cried, 
"  Plunge  and  be  lost  —  ill-fated  as  they 

were, 
A  bitterness  to  me  !  —  ye  look  amazed, 
Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as 

given  — 
Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I  was  leaning 

out 
Above  the  river  —  that  unhappy  child 
Past  in  her  barge :  but  rosier  luck  will  go 
With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that  they 

came 
Not  from  the  skeleton  of  a  brother-slayer. 
But  the  sweet  body  of  a  maiden  babe. 
Perchance  —  who  knows  ?  —  the  purest 

of  thy  knights 
May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my  maids. " 

She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a  great 

jousts 
With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the 

ways 
From  Camelot  in  among  the  faded  fields 
To  furthest  towers  ;  and  eveiywhere  the 

knights 
Arna'd  for  a  day  of  glory  before  the  King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud 

morn 
Into  the  hall  stagger'd,  his  visage  ribb'd 
From  ear  to  ear  with  dogvvhip-weals,  his 

nose 
Bridge-broken,    one   eye   out,    and   one 

hand  off. 
And  one  with  shatter' d  fingers  dangling 

lame, 
A  churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the  King, 
"  My   churl,  for   whom  Christ  died, 

what  evil  beast 


430 


THE  LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy  face  ? 

or  iieud  ? 
Man  was  it  who  niarr'd  Heaven's  image 

iu  thee  thus  ?  " 

Then,    sputtering  thro'  the   hedge  of 

splinter'd  teeth, 
Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  with 

bhmt  stump 
Pitch-blucken'd  sawing  the  air,  said  the 

maim'd  churl, 
"  He  took  them  and  he  drave  them  to 

his  tower  — 
Some    hold   he   was   a   table-knight   of 

thine- — 
A  hundred  goodly  ones— the  Red  Knight 

he  — 
Lord,  I  was  tending  swine,  and  the  Red 

Knight 
Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to  his 

tower  ; 
And  when  I  call'd  upon  thy  name  as  one 
That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by  churl, 
Maim'd  me  and  maul'd,  and  would  out- 
right have  slain. 
Save  that  he   sware  me   to  a  message, 

saying  — 
'Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars, 

that  I 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the 

North, 
And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have 

sworn 
My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter  to 

it  —  and  say 
My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his  court, 
But  mine  are  worthier,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other  than  themselves  —  and 

say 
My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  hisown, 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other  ;  and  say  his  hour  is 

come, 
The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long  lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a  straw.'  " 

Then  Arthur  tum'd  to  Kay  the  senes- 
chal, 

"Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him 
curiously 

Like  a  king's  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be 
whole. 

The  heathen  —  but  that  ever-climbing 
wave, 

Hurl'd  back  again  so  often  in  emptyfoam. 

Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest  —  and  rene- 
gades, 


Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confusion, 

whom 
The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of  other- 
where, — 
Friends,  thro'  your  manhood  and  your 

fealty,  —  now 
Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  in  the 

North. 
My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in  whom 

your  flower 
Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds. 
Move  with  me   toward   their   quelling, 

which  achieved. 
The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore  to 

shore. 
But  thou.  Sir  Lancelot,  sittingin  my  place 
Enchair'd  to-morrow,  arbitrate  the  field  ; 
For    wherefore   shouldst    thou   care   to 

mingle  with  it. 
Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own  again  ? 
Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent  :  is  it 

well  ? " 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer' d,  "  It  is 
well  : 
Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
The  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to  me. 
Else,  for  the  King  has  will'd  it,  it  is  well." 

Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  follow'd 

him, 
And  while  they  stood  without  the  doors, 

the  King 
Tum'd  to  hmi  saying,   "  Is  it  then  so 

well  ? 
Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I  seem  as  he 
Of  whom  was  written,  '  a  sound  is  in  his 

ears ' — 
The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go,  —  the 

glance 
That  only  seems  half-loyal  to  command,— 
A  manner   somewhat  fall'n  from  rever- 
ence— 
Or  have  I   dream' d  the  bearing  of  our 

knights 
Tells  of  a  manhood  ever  less  and  lower  1 
Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my  realm, 

uprear'd. 
By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows. 
From  flat  confusion  and  brute  violences. 
Reel   back   into  the  beast,  and   be  no 

more?" 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 
knights, 
Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply 
turu'd 


THE   LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


431 


North  b}'  the  gate.     In  hor  higli  bower 

the  Queen, 
Working  a  tapestry,  lifted  up  her  head, 
Watch'd   her  lord  pass,  and  knew  not 

that  she  sigh'd. 
Then  ran  across  her  memory  the  strange 

rhyme 
Of  bygone  Merlin,   "  Where  is  he  who 

knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep 

he  goes." 

Butwhen  the  morning  of  ateurnament, 
By  these  in  earnest,  those  in  moclcery, 

call'd 
The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Innocence, 
Brake  with  a  wet  wind  blowing,  Lance- 
lot, 
Roimd  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like 

birds  of  prey. 
The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek'd,  arose, 
And  down  a  streetway  hung  with  folds 

of  pure 
White  samite,  and  by  fountains  running 

wine. 
Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups 

of  gold, 
Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there,  Avith  slow 

sad  steps 
Ascending,    fiU'd    his    double-dragon'd 

chair. 

He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  galleries. 
Dame,  damsel,  each  thro'  worship  of  their 

Queen 
White-robed  in  honor  of  the   stainless 

child, 
And  some  with  sca-tter'd  jewels,  like  a 

bank 
Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks  of 

fire. 
He  lookt  but  once,  and  veil'd  his  eyes 

again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in  a 

dream 
To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low  roll 
Of  Autumn    thunder,    and    the  jousts 

began  : 
And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellowing 

leaf 
And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and 

shorn  plume 
Went  down  it.    Sighing  weariedly,  as  one 
Who  sits  and  gazps  on  a  faded  fire, 
When  all  the  goodlier  guests   are   past 

away, 


Sat  their  great  umpire,  looking  o'er  the 

lists. 
He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tournament 
Broken,  but  spake  not  ;  once,  a  knight 

cast  down 
Before  his  throne  of  arbitration  cursed 
The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the  King ; 
And  once  the  laces  of  a  helmet  crack'd, 
And  show'dhim,  like  a  vermin  in  its  hole.. 
Modred,  a  narrow  face  :  anon  he  heard 
The  voice  that  billow'd  round  the  bar- 

riers  roar 
An     ocean -sounding    welcome    to    one 

knight. 
But  newly-enter'd,  taller  than  the  rest. 
And  armor'd  all  in  forest  green,  whereon 
There  tript  a  hundred  tiny  silver  deer. 
And  wealing  but  a  holly-spray  for  crest, 
With   ever-scattering    berries,    and    on 

shield 
A  spear,  a  harp,  a  bugle  —  Tristram  — 

late 
From  overseas  in  Brittany  return'd, 
And   marriage  with  a  princess  of  that 

realm, 
Isolt  the   White — Sir   Tristram  of  the 

Woods  — 
Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  sometime, 

with  pain 
His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn'd 

to  shake 
The  burthen  off  his  heart  in  one  full  shock 
With  Tristram  ev'n  to  death  :  his  strong 

hands  gript 
And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and  left, 
Until  he  groan'd  for  \vrath  —  so  many 

of  those. 
That  ware  their  ladies'   colors  on   the 

casque. 
Drew    from  before  Sir   Tristram  to  the 

bounds. 
And    there   with  gibes    and  flickering 

mockeries 
Stood,    while    he    mutter'd,     "Craven 

crests  !     0  shame  ! 
What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they 

sware  to  love  ? 
The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no  more.' 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave, 

the  gems, 
Not   speaking  other  word  than  "  Hast 

thou  won  ? 
Art  thou  the  purest,  brother  ?     See,  the 

hand 
Wherewith  thou  takest  this  is  red  I  "  to 

whom 


432 


THE   LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Tristram,    half  plagued    by    Lancelot's 

languorous  mood, 
Made  answer,   "Ay,  but  wherefore  toss 

me  this 
Like  a  dry  bone  cast  to   some  hungry 

hound  '! 
Let  be  thy  fair  Queen's  fantasy.  Strength 

of  heart 
And  might  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and 

skill, 
Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our  King. 
My  hand  —  belike  the  lance  hath  dript 

upon  it  — 
No  blood  of  mine,  I  trow  ;  but  0  chief 

knight, 
Kight  ann  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield, 
Great  brother,  thou  nor  1  have  made  the 

world  ; 
Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I  in  mine. " 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery  made 

his  horse 
Caracole  ;  then  bow'd  his  homage,  bluntly 

saying, 
"  Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  worships 

each 
Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  behold 
This  day  my  Queen  of   Beauty  is   not 

here." 
Then  most   of  these   were   mute,  some 

anger'd,  one 
Murmuring  "All  courtesy  is  dead,"  and 

one, 
"  The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no 

more." 

Then  fell   thick   rain,   plume   droopt 

and  mantle  clung, 
And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan  day 
Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  weari- 
ness : 
But  under  her  black  brows   a   swarthy 

dame 
LaughtshriUy,  crying  "  Praise  the  patient 

saints. 
Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath 

past, 
Tho'   somewhat  dmggled  at  the  skirt. 

So  be  it. 
The  snowdrop  only,  flow'ring  thro'  the 

year. 
Would    make   the   world   as   blank    as 

wintertide. 
Come  —  let  us  comfort  their  sad   eyes, 

our  Queen's 
And  Lancelot's,  at  this  night's  solemnity 
With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the  field." 


So   dame  and  damsel  glitter'd  at  the 

feast 
Variously  gay  :  for  he  that  telhi  the  tale 
Liken'd  them,  saying  "  as  when  an  hour 

of  cold 
Falls  on  the  mountain   in   midsummer 

snows, 
And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain 

flowers 
Pass  vinder  white,  till   the  wami  hour 

returns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 

again  "  ; 
So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple  white, 
And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live  grass, 
Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  poppy, 

glanced 
About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so  loud 
Beyond  all  use,  that,  half-amazed,  the 

Queen, 
And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  lawless 

jousts. 
Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to  her 

bower 
Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And   little   Dagonet   on   the  morrow 

morn. 
High  overall  the  yellowing  Autumn-tide, 
Danced  like  a  wither'd  leaf  before  the 

hall. 
Then  Tristram  saying,   ' '  Why  skip  ye 

so,  Sir  Fool  ?  " 
Wheel'd  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet 

replied, 
"  Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company  ; 
Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much  wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I 

ski}) 
To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of  all. " 
"Ay,  fool,"  said   Tristram,  "but   'tis 

eating  dry 
To  dance  without  a  catch,  a  roundelay 
To  dance   to."     Then   he   twangled  or 

his  harp, 
And  while  he  twangled  little   Dagonet 

stood, 
Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd   in   the   wandering  warble   of  a 

brook  ; 
But   when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt 

again  ; 
Then  being  ask'd,  "  "Why  skipt  ye  not 

Sir  Fool  ?  " 
Made  answer,  "  I  had  liefer  twenty  years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  ye  can  make." 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


433 


rhen  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip  to 

come, 
"  Good  now,  what  music  have  I  broken, 

fool  ? " 
And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  "Arthur, 

the  king's  ; 
For  when  thou    playest   that   air   with 

Queen  Isolt, 
Thon  makest  broken  music  with  thy  bride. 
Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brit- 
tany — 
Andsothoubreakest  Arthur'smusic  too." 
"Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy  brains, 
Sir  Fool,"  said  Tristram,  "  I  would  break 

thy  head. 
Fool,  I  came  late,  the  heathen  wars  were 

o'er, 
The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by  the 

shell  — 
I  am  but  a  fool  to  reason  with  a  fool. 
Come,  thou  art  crabb'd  and  sour  :  but 

lean  me  down, 
Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses'  ears, 
And  hearken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

"'Free   love — free   field — -we   love 

but  while  we  may  : 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is  no 

more  : 
The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past  away  : 
New  leaf,  new  life  —  the  days  of  frost 

are  o'er  : 
New  life  new  love  to  suit  the  newer  day  : 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went 

before  : 
Free   love  —  free   field  —  we    love    but 

while  we  may.' 

"  Ye  miglit  have  moved  slow-measure 

to  my  tune, 
Not  stood  stockstill.     I  made  it  in  the 

woods, 
And  found  it  ring  as  true  as  tested  gold." 

But  Dagonet  with  one  foot  poised  in 
his  hand, 

"  Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain  yes- 
terday 

Made  to  run  wine  ?  —  but  this  had  run 
itself 

All  out  like  a  long  life  to  a  sour  end  — 

i\nd  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden 
cups 

To  hand  the  wine  to  whomsoever  came  — 

The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as  In- 
nocence, 

In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  tlie  babe, 


Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence  the 

Queen 
Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the  King 
Gave  for  a  prize  —  and   one   of  those 

white  slips 
Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty  one, 
'  Drink,  drink.  Sir  Fool,'  and  thereupon 

I  drank. 
Spat  —  pish  —  the   cup  was  gold,    the 

draught  was  mud." 

And  Tristram,  "  Was  it  muddier  than 

thy  gibes  ? 
Is  all   the   laughter  gone  dead  out  of 

thee  ?  — 
Not  marking  how  the  knighthood  mock 

thee,  fool  — 
'  Fear  God  :  honor  the  king  —  his  one 

true  knight  — 
Sole  follower  of  the  vows '  —  for  here  be 

they 
Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I  came, 
Smuttier  than  blasted  grain  :  but  when 

the  King 
Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot  up 
It  frighted  all  free   fool   from   out  thy 

heart ; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less 

than  swine, 
A  naked  aught  —  yet  swine  I  hold  thee 

.still, 
For  I  have  flung  thee  pearls,  and  find 

thee  swine." 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his 

feet, 
"  Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies  round 

my  neck 
In  lieu  of  hers,  1  '11  hold  thou  hast  some 

touch 
Of  music,  since  I  care  not  for  thy  pearls. 
Swine  ?     I  have  wallow'd,  I  have  wash'd 

—  the  world 
Is  flesh  and  shadow  —  I  havehadmyday. 
The  dirty  nurse,  E.xperience,  in  her  kind 
Hath  foul'd  me  —  an  I  wallow'd,   then 

I  wash'd  — 
I  have  had  my  day  and  my  philosophies  — 
And  thank  the  Lord  I  am  King  Arthur's 

fool. 
Swine,  say  ye  ?  swine,  goats,  asses,  rams, 

and  geese 
Troop'd  round  a  Paynim   harper  once, 

who  thrumm'd 
On  such  a  wii-e  as  musically  as  thou 
Some  .such  fine  song  —  but  never  a  king's 

fool." 


434 


THE   LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


And   Tristram,    "Then   were   swine, 
goats,  asses,  geese 
The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim  bard 
Had  such  a  mastery  of  his  mystery 
That  he  cor;ld  harp  liis  wife  iipout  of  Hell. " 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball  of 
his  foot, 

''And  whither  harp' st  thou  thine  ?  down  ! 
and  thyself 

Down  !  and  two  more  :  a  helpful  harper 
thou. 

That  harpest  downward  !  Dost  thou 
know  the  star 

We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in  heav- 
en?" 

And   Tristram,    "  Ay,    Sir   Fool,   for 

when  our  King 
"Was  victor   wellnigh   day  by  day,  the 

knights, 
Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his  name 
High  on   all  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of 

heaven." 

And    Dagonet  answer'd,    "Ay,    and 

when  the  land 
Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye  set 

yourself 
To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your 

wit  — 
And  whether  he  were  king  by  courtesy, 
Or  king  by  right  —  and  so  went  harping 

down 
The   black  king's  highway,  got  so  far, 

and  grew 
So  witty,  that  ye  jilay'd  at  ducks  and 

drakes 
With  Arthur's  vows  on  the  great  lake  of 

fire. 
Tuwhoo  !  do  ye  see  it  ?   do  ye  see   the 

star  ? " 
"Nay,  fool,"  said  Tristram,  "not  in 

open  day." 
And  Dagonet,  ' '  Nay,  nor  will  :  I  see  it 

and  hear. 
It  makes  a  silent  music  up  in  heaven, 
And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angels  hear. 
And   then  we   skip."      "  Lo,  fool,"  he 

said,  "ye  talk 
Fool's  treason  :  is  the  king  thy  brother 

fool  ? " 
Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands  and 

shrill'd, 
"  Ay,    ay,    my    brother  fool,  the   king 

of  fools  ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can  make 


Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristle.?, 
milk 

From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hornet- 
combs. 

And  men  from  beasts.  Long  live  the 
king  of  fools  !  " 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced 

away. 
But  thro'  the  slowly-mellowing  avenues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
llode  Tristram  toward  Lyonesse  and  the 

west. 
Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  niby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a  rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all  that  walk'd,  or  crept,  or  perched, 

or  flew. 
Anon  the  face,  as,  when  agusthath  blown, 
Unruffling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Ofonethatinthem  sees  himself,  return'd  ; 
But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a  deer, 
Or  ev'n  a  fall'n  feather,  vanish'd  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to  lawn 
Thro'  many  a  league-long  bower  he  rode. 

At  length 
A  lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen-boughs 
Furze-cramm'd,  and  bracken -rooft,  the 

which  himself 
Built  for  a  summer  day  with  Queen  Isolt 
Against  a  shower,  dark  in   the  golden 

grove 
Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to  where 
She  lived  a  moon  in  that  low  lodge  with 

him  : 
Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Cornish 

king. 
With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was 

away. 
And  snatch'd  her  thence  ;  yet  dreading 

worse  than  shame 
Her  warrior   Tristram,    spake   not   any 

word, 
But  bode   his  hour,  devising  wretched- 
ness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tristram 

lookt 
So  sweet,  that,  halting,  in  he  past,  and 

sank 
Down  on  a  drift  of  foliage  random-blown ; 
But  could  not  rest  for  nnising  how   to 

smooth 
And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the  Queen. 
Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from  all 


THE   LAST   TOUKNAMENT. 


435 


The  tongiiesters  of  the  court  she  liad  not 

heard. 
But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  overseas 
After  she  left  him  lonely  here  ?  a  name  ? 
Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 
Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King  ?    "  Isolt 
Of  the  white  hands  "  they  call'd  her  :  the 

sweet  name 
Allured  him   first,  and   then   the   maid 

herself, 
Who  served  him  well  with  those  white 

hands  of  hers, 
And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had 

thought 
He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily, 
But  left  her  all  as  easily,  and  return'd. 
The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish  eyes 
Had  drawn  him   home  —  what  marvel  ? 

then  he  laid 
His  brows   upon   the   drifted   leaf  and 

dream'd. 

He  seem'd  to  pace  thestrand  of  Brittany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride, 
And  show'd  them  both  the  ruby-chain, 

and  both 
Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand  was 

red. 
Then  cried  the  Breton,  "  Look,  her  hand 

is  red  ! 
These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen  blood, 
And  melts  within  her  hand  —  her  hand 

is  hot 
With  ill  desires,  but  this  I  gave  thee,  look, 
Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower.'' 
Follow'd  a  rush  of  eagle's  wings  and  then 
A  whimi)ering  of  the  spirit  of  the  child, 
Because  the  twain  had  spoil'dher  carcanet. 

He  dream'd  ;  but  Arthur  with  a  hun- 
dred spears 
Rode  far,  till  o'er  the  illimitable  reed. 
And  many  a  glancing  plash  and  sallowy 

isle, 
The  wide-wing'd  sunset   of  the   misty 

marsh 
Glared  on  a  huge  machicolated  tower 
That   stood  with  open  doors,  whereout 

was  roU'd 
A  roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their  ease 
Among  their  harlot-brides,  an  e\'il  song. 
"  Lo  there,"  said  one  of  Arthur';:  youth, 

for  there, 
High  on  a  grim  dead  tree  before  the  tower, 
A  goodlv  brother  of  The  Table  Eound 


Swung  by  the  neck  :  and  on  the  boughs 

a  shield 
Showing  a  shower  of  blood  in  a  field  noir, 
And   therebeside   a  horn,  inflamed  the 

kniglits 
At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur, 
Till   each  would  clash  the   shield,  and 

blow  the  horn. 
But  Arthur  waved  them  back  :  alone  he 

rode. 
Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the  great 

horn. 
That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh  aloft 
An  ever  upward-rushing  storm  and  cloud 
Of  shriek  and  phune,  the  Red    Knight 

heard,  and  all, 
Even  to  tipmost  lance  and  topmost  helm, 
In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl'd  to 

the  King, 
' '  The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and  gnash 

thee  flat  !  — 
Lo  !  art  thou  not   that  eunuch-hearted 

King 
Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from 

the  world  — 
The   woman-worshipper  ?      Yea,    God's 

curse,  and  I  ! 
Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  paramour 
By' a  knight  of  thine,  and  I  that  heard 

her  whine 
And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 
Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that  twists 

in  hell, 
And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death, 
To  hang  whateverknight  of  thine  1  fought 
And  tumbled.    Art  thou  King  ?  —  Look 

to  thy  life  !  " 

He  ended  :  Arthur   knew  the  voice  ; 

the  faic 
Wellnigh  was   Iielmet-hidden,    and   the 

name 
Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling  in 

his  mind. 
And  Arthur  deign'd  not  use  of  word  or 

sword, 
But  let  the   drunkard,  as  he   stretch 'd 

from  horse 
To  strike  him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 
Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to  the 

swamp 
Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching 

wave 
Heard  in  dead  night  along  that   table- 
shore 
Drops   flat,    and  after  the  great  waters 

break 


436 


THE   LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Whitening  for  half  a  league,  and  thin 

themselves 
Far  over  sands  marbled  witli  moon  and 

cloud, 
From  less  and  lesstonothing ;  thushe  fell 
Head-heavy,    while   the    knights,    who 

watch'd  him,  roar'd 
And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the 

fall'n  ; 
There  trampled  out  his  face  from  being 

known, 
And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed 

themselves  : 
Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own  cries, 

but  sprang 
Thro'    open  doors,  and   swording  right 

and  left 
Men,  women,  on  theirsoddexi  faces,  hurl'd 
The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and  slew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman-yells. 
And   all   the   pavement   stream'd    with 

massacre  : 
Tiien,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they  fired 

the  tower, 
Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like  the 

live  North, 
Red-pulsing  up  thro'  Alioth  and  Alcor, 
Made  all  above  it,  and  a  hundred  meres 
About  it,  as  the  water  iloab  saw 
Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  beyond 

them  flush'd 
Thelonglow  dune,  and  lazy-plungingsea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  shore 

to  shore, 
But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was  lord. 
Then  out  of  Tristram  waking  the  red 

dream 
Fled  with  a  shout,  and  that  low  lodge 

return'd. 
Mid-forest,    and    the   wind  among  the 

boughs. 
He  whistled  hisgoodwarhorse  left  to  graze 
Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upon 

him, 
And  rode  beneath  an  ever-showering  leaf. 
Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a  cross, 
Stay'd  him,  "  Why  wee])  ye  ^  "    "  Lord," 

she  said,  "  my  man 
Hath  left  me  or  is  dead  "  ;  wdiereon  he 

thought  — 
"  What  an  she  hate  me  now  ?     I  would 

not  this. 
What  an  she  love  me  still  ?    1  would  not 

that. 
I  know  not  what  I  would  "  —  but  said 

to  her,  — 


"Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mat« 

return, 
He  find  thy  favor  changed  ana  love  thee 

not "  — 
Then  pressing  day  bj^  day  thro'  Lyonesse 
Last  in  a  roky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the  goodly 

hounds 
Yelp  at  his  heart,  but,  turning,  past  and 

gain'd 
Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on  land, 
A  crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a  casement  sat, 
A  low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her  hair 
And    glossy-throated    grace,    Isolt    the 

Queen. 
And  when  she  heaid  the  feet  of  Tiistram 

grind 
The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about  her 

tower, 
Flush'd,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors, 

and  there 
Belted  his  body  with  her  white  embrace, 
Crying  aloud,  ' '  Not  Mark  —  not  Mark, 

my  soul  ! 
The  footstep  flutter'd  me  at  first :  not  he  : 
Catlike  thro'  his  own  castle  steals   my 

ilark, 
But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  through  his 

halls 
Who  hates  thee,  as  1  him  —  ev'n  to  the 

death. 
M}^  soul,  1  felt  my  hatred  for  my  Mark 
Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that  thou 

wert  nigh." 
To  whom  Sir  TrLstram  smiling,    "  I  am 

here. 
Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not  thine." 

And  drawing  somewhat  backward  she 

replied, 
' '  Can  he  be  wrong'd  who  is  not  ev'n  his 

own, 
But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beateii 

me, 
Scratch'd,   bitten,    blinded,    marr'd  me 

somehow  —  Mark  ? 
What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not  strike 

for  them  ? 
Not  lift  a  hand  —  not,  tho'  he  found  me 

thus  ! 
But  hearken,  have  ye  met  him  ?  hence  he 

went 
To-day  for  three  days'  hunting  —  as  he 

said  — 
And  so  retm'ns  belike  within  an  hour. 


THE   LAST   TOURNAMENT. 


437 


Mark's  way,  my  soul !  —  but  eat  not  thou 

with  him, 
Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than  fears ; 
Nor  drink  :  ami  when  thou  passest  any 

wood 


Who  brakest  thro'   the  scruple  of  my 

bond, 
Calling  me  tliy  white  hind,  and  saying  to 

me 
That  Guinevere  had  sinned  against  the 


Close  visor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the  bush  highest. 

Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark  and  ,  And  I  —  niisyoked  with  such  a  want  of 
hell.  I  man  — 


My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for  Mark 
Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee." 

So,  pluck'd  one  way  by  hate  and  one 

by  love, 
Drain'd  of  her  force,  again  she  sat,  and 

spake 
ToTristram,  ashekneltbeforeher,  saying, 
"  0  hunter,  and  0  blower  of  the  horn. 
Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a  rover  too, 
Foi',  ere  I  mated  witli  my  shamblingking. 
Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the  bride 
Of  one  —  his  name  is  out  of  me — the  prize, 
If  prize  she  were  —  (what  marvel  —  she 

could  see)  — 
Thine,  friend  ;  and  ever  since  my  craven 

seeks 
To  wreck  thee  villanously  :  but,  O  Sir 

Knight, 
What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneeled 

to  last  ? " 

And  Tristram,  "  Last   to  my  Queen 
Paramount, 
Here  nowto  my  Queen  Paramountof  love, 
And  loveliness,  ay,  lovelier  than  when 

first 
Her  light  feet  fell  on  our  rough  Lyonesse, 
Sailing  from  Ireland." 

Softly  laugh'd  Isolt, 
"  Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 

Queen 
My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  ?"  and  he  said, 
"Her beauty  is  her  beauty,  and   thine 

thine. 
And  thine  is  more  to  me  —  soft,  gracious, 

kind  — 
Save  when  th J' Mark  is  kindled  on  thy  lips 
Most  gracious  ;  but  she,  haughty,  ev'n  to 

him, 
Lancelot ;  for  I  have  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  gi'eat 

Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love.' ' 

To  whom  Isolt, 
"  Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  harper, 
thou 


That  1  could  hardly  sin  against  the  low- 
est." 

He  answered,  "  0  my  soul,  be  com- 
forted ! 

If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading-strings, 

If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin, 

Crown'd  warrant  had  we  for  the  crowning 
sin 

That  made  us  happy  :  but  how  ye  greet 
me  —  fear 

And  fault  and  doubt  —  no  word  of  that 
fond  tale  — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet 
memories 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  away." 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 
Isolt, 
"  I  had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee  —  yearnings  ? — ay !  for,  hour 

by  hour. 
Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 
0  sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee, 
Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem'd  those  far-rolling,  westward-smil- 
ing seas. 
Watched  from  this  tower.    Isolt  of  Britain 

dash'd 
Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand, 
Would  that  have  chiU'd  her  bride-kiss  ? 

Wedded  her  ? 
Fought  in  her  father's  battles  ?  wounded 

there  ? 
The  King  was  all  fulfill'd  witli  grateful- 
ness. 
And  she,  my  namesake  of  the   hands. 

that  heal'd 
Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 

caress  — 
Well  —  can  I  wish  her  any  huger  wrong 
Than  having  known  thee  ?  her  too  hast 

thou  left 
To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet  memo- 
ries ? 
0  were  I  not  my  Mark's,  by  whom  all 

men 
Are  noble,  I  should  hate  thee  more  than 
love/' 


438 


THE   LAST   TOUIiNAMENT. 


And    Tristram,    fondling    her    light 

hands,  replied, 
"  Grace,    Queen,   for  being  loved  :  she 

loved  me  well. 
Did  I  love  her?  the  name  at  least  Iloved. 
Isolt  ? —  1  fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 
The  night  was  dark  ;  the  true  star  set. 

isolt  ! 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark Isolt  ? 

Care  not  for  her  !  patient,  and  prayerful, 

meek,  ' 

Pale-blooded,    she  will  yield  herself  to 

God." 

And  Isolt  answer'd,  "Yea,  and  why 

not  I  ? 
Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not 

meek, 
Pale-blooded,    prayerful.      Let   me   tell 

thee  now. 
Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer  night 

I  sat 
Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wondering 

where. 
Murmuring  a  light   song   J   had  heard 

thee  sing, 
And  once  or  twice  1  spake  thy  name  aloud. 
Then   flash'd   a  levin-brand  ;  and  near 

me  stood, 
In  fuming  sulphur  blue   and   green,  a 

fiend  — 
Mark's  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the 

dark  — 
For  there  was  Mark  :   '  He  has  wedded 

her,'  he  said. 
Not  said,  but  hissed  it  :  then  this  crown 

of  towers 
So  shook  to  such  a  roar  of  all  the  sky. 
That  here  in  utter  dark  I  swoon'd  away. 
And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and  cried, 
'I    will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to 

God '  — 
And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new  leman's 

arms." 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with  her 

hand, 
■'May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

old  and  gray. 
And  past  desire  !  "  a  saying  that  anger'd 

her. 
"  '  May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when 

thou  art  old. 
And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! '   I  need  Him 

now. 
For  when  had  Lancelot  utter'd  aught  so 

gross 


Ev'n  to  the  swineherd's  nialkin  in  the 

mast  ? 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 
But  thou,  thro'  ever  harrying  thy  wild 

beasts  — 
Save  that  to  touch  a  harp,  tilt  with  a 

lance 
Becomes    thee   well  —  art    grown   wild 

beast  thyself. 
How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me  even 
In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me  far 
In  the  gray  distance,  half  a  life  away, 
Her   to  be  loved  no  more  ?     Unsay  it, 

unswear  ! 
Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me  so  weak. 
Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  soli- 
tude, 
Thy  marriage   and  mine  own,    that   I 

should  suck 
Lieslikesweet wines  :  lietome:  1  believe. 
AVill  ye  not  lie  ?  not  swear,  as  there  ye 

kneel. 
And  solemnly  as  when  ye  sware  to  him, 
The  man  of  men,  our  King —  My  God, 

the  power 
Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed  the 

King  ! 
They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and  thro' 

their  vows 
The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm  :  — 

I  say. 
Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev'n  when 

old. 
Gray-haired,    and   past   desire,    and   in 

despair." 

Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up  and 
down, 

"  Vows  !  did  ye  keep  the  vow  ye  made 
to  Mark 

More  than  1  mine  ?  Lied,  say  ye  ?  Nay, 
but  learnt. 

The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps 
itself  — 

My  knighthood  taught  me  this  —  ay. 
being  snapt  — 

We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 

Than  had  we  never  sworn.  I  swear  no 
more. 

I  swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am  for- 
sworn. 

For  once  —  ev'n  to  the  height  —  I  hon- 
or'd  him. 

'  Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ? '  methought, 
when  first 

I  rode  from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and 
beheld 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


439 


That  victor   of  the    Pagan   throned  in 

hall  — 
His  hair,  a  sun  that  raj'M  from  off  a  brow 
Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the  steel- 
blue  C3'es, 
The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lips 

with  light  — 
Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  liis  birth, 
With  Merlin's  mystic  babble  about  his 

end, 
Amazed  me ;  then,  his  foot  was  on  a  stool 
Shaped  as  a  dragon  ;  he  seem'd  to  me  no 

man, 
But  Michael  trampling  Satan ;  so  I  sware. 
Being  amazed  :  but  this  went  by  —  the 

vows  ! 
0  ay  —  the  wholesome   madness  of  an 

hour  — 
They  served  their  use,  their  time  ;  for 

every  knight 
Believed  himself  a  greater  than  himself. 
And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a  God  ; 
Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  himself, 
Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he  had 

done, 
And  so  the  realm  was  made  ;  but  then 

their  vows  — 
First  mainly  thro'  that  sullying  of  our 

Queen  — 
Began   to  gall  the  knighthood,  asking 

whence 
Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  him- 
self? 
Dropt  down   from   heaven  ?  wash'd  up 

from  out  the  deep  ? 
They  fail'd  to  trace  him  thro'  the  flesh 

and  blood 
Of  our  old   Kings :    whence    then  ?    a 

doubtful  lord 
To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows, 
Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would 

violate  : 
For  feel  this  arm  of  mine  —  the   tide 

within 
Red  with  free  chase  and  heather-scented 

air. 
Pulsing  full  man  ;  can  Arthur  make  me 

pure 
As  any  maiden  child  ?  lock  up  my  tongue 
From  nttering  freely  what  1  freely  hear  ? 
Bind  me  to  one  ?   The  great  world  laughs 

at  it. 
And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and 

know 
The  ptarmigan  that  whitens  ere  his  hour 
Wooes  his  own  end ;  we  are  not  angels 

here 


Nor  shall  be  :  vows  —  Tam  woodman  of 

the  woods. 
And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 
Mock  them  :  my  soul,  we  love  but  while 

we  may  ; 
And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for  thee. 
Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love." 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her, 
and  she  said, 
' '  Good  :  an  1  turn'd  away  my  love  for  thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as  thy- 
self— 
For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 
As  valor  may  —  but  he  that  closes  both 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  —  taller  indeed, 
Rosier,  iind  oomelier,  thou  —  but  say  I 

loved 
This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and  cast 

thee  back 
Thine  own  small  saw  '  We  love  but  while 

we  may,' 
Well  then,  what  answer  ? " 

He  tliat  while  she  spake. 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn  her 

with, 
Thcjewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly  touch 
The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat,  re- 

l)lied, 
"  Press  this  a  little  closer,  sweet,  until — 
Come,  1  am  hunger'd  and  half-anger'd  — 

meat. 
Wine,  wine  —  and  I  will  love  thee  to  the 

death, 
And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to  come." 

So  then,  when  both  were  brought  tc 

full  accord. 
She  rose,  and  set  before  him  all  he  will'd  ; 
And  after  these  had  comforted  the  blood 
With  meats  and  wines,  and  satiated  their 

hearts  — 
Now  talking  of  their  woodland  paradise. 
The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the  founts, 

the  lawns  ; 
Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungainliness, 
And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  leg.s 

of  Mark  — 
Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the  harp, 

and  sang  : 

"Ay,  ay,  0  ay  — the  winds  that  bend  the 

brier  ! 
A  star  in  heaven,  a  star  within  the  mere  ! 
Ay,  ay,  0  ay  —  a  star  was  my  desire, 
And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was  near  : 


440 


GAEETH   AND   I.YNETTE. 


Ay,  ay,  0  ay  —  the  winds  that  bow  the 

grass  ! 
And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was  fire, 
And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will  pass. 
Ay,  ay,  O  ay  —  the  winds  that  move  the 

mere." 

Then  in  the  light's  last  glimmer  Tris- 
tram show'd 
A  nd  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.  She  cried, 
"The  collar  of  some  order,  which  our  King 
Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my  soul. 
For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond  thy 
peers." 

"Not  so,  my  Queen,"  he  said,  "but 

the  red  fruit 

Grown  ona  magic  oak-tree  in  mid-heaven. 

And  won  by  Tristram  as  a  tourney-prize, 

And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for  his 

last 
Love-offering  and    peace-offering    unto 
thee." 

He  rose,  he  tum'd,  and  flinging  round 
her  neck, 


Claspt  it ;  but  while  he  bow'd  himself  to 

lay 
Wann    kisses    in    the    hollow   of   her 

throat. 
Out   of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had 

touch'd. 
Behind  him  rose  a  shadow  and  a  shriek  — 
"  Mark's  way,"  said  Mark,  and  clove  him 

thro'  the  brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and 

while  he  climb'd. 
All   in  a  death-dumb  autumn-dripping 

gloom. 
The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look'd  and 

saw 
The  great  Queen's  bower  was  dark,  — 

about  his  feet 
A  voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  question'd 

it, 
"  What  art  thou  ? "  and  the  voice  about 

his  feet 
Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  "  I  am  thy 

fool. 
And  I    shall    never    make   thee   smile 

again." 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE.' 


With  this  poem  the  Author  concludes  The  Idyls  of  the  Kino. 


The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Belli- 

cent, 
And    tallest,    Gareth,    in    a    showerful 

spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.     A  slender-shafted 

Pine 
Lost   footing,    fell,   and   so  was  whirl'd 

away. 
"  How  he   went  down,"    said   Gareth, 

"as  a  false  knight 
Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 
Were  mine   to   use  —  0   senseless   cat- 
aract, 
Bearing  all  down  in  thy  p7-ecipitancy  — 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold 

snows. 
And  mine  is   living  blood  :   thou   dost 

His  will, . 
The  Maker's,  and   not   knowest,  and  I 

that  know. 


Have    strength   and   wit,    in   my  good 

mother's  hall 
Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,    and    kept    and    coax'd    and 

whistled  to  — 
Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a 

child  — 
Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  ! 
A   worse    were    better ;    yet    no  worse 

would  I. 
Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put 

force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 

prayer. 
Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 

swoop 
Down  upon  all  things   base,  and   dash 

them  dead. 


•  Gareth  follows  The  Coming  of  Arthur,  and  The  Last  Tournament  precedes  Guineverb. 


GARETH   AND    LYNETTE. 


441 


A  knight  of   Arthur,    working   out   his 

will, 
To  cleanse   the   world.     Why,  Gawain, 

when  he  came 
"With    Modred   hither   in    the   summer- 
time, 
Ask'd  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven 

knight. 
^^odred  for   want  of  worthier    was   the 

judge. 
Then  I  .so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he 

said, 
'Thou  hast  half  prevail'd  against   me,' 

said  so  —  he  — 
Tho'    Modred   biting  his  thin  lips  was 

mute. 
For  he  is  alway  sullen  :  what  care  I  ?  " 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round 

her  chair 
Ask'd,  ' '  Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still 

the  child. 
Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ? " 

She  laugh'd, 
•'  Thou  art  but  a  wild-goose  to  question 

it." 
"Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child," 

he  said, 
"  Being  a  goose  and   rather  tame  than 

wild. 
Hear   the   child's    story."     "  Yea,    my 

well-beloved, 
An  't  were  but  of  the  goo.se  and  golden 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 

"  N^y,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  ogg 
of  mine 

W;is  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay  ; 

For  this  an  Eagle,  a  royal  Eagle,  laid 

Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a 
palm 

As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours. 

And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the 
palm 

A  lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 

The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft,  and 
thought 

'An  I  could  climb  and  lay  my  hand 
upon  it. 

Then  were  I  wealthier  than  a  leash  of 
kings. ' 

But  ever  when  he  reach'd  a  hand  to 
climb. 

One,  that  had  loved  him  from  his  child- 
hood, caught 


And  .stay'd  him,    'Climb  not  lest  thou 

break  thy  neck, 
I  charge  thee  by  my  love,'  and  so  tk 

boy. 
Sweet  mother,  neither  clomb,  nor  brake 

his  neck. 
But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for 

it. 
And  past  away." 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
"  True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk'd  him- 
self and  climb'd. 
And   handed   down  the  golden  treasure 
to  him." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  her  with  kind- 
ling eyes, 
"Gold?   said  1   gold?  —  ay  then,  why 

he,  or  she. 
Or  whosoe'er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured  —  had  the  thing  I  spake 

of  been 
Mere  gold  —  but  this  was  all  of  that 

true  steel, 
Whereof  they  forged   the  brand  Excal- 

ibur. 
And  lightnings  play'd   about   it  in  the 

storm. 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at  it, 
And  there  were  cries  and   clashings  in 

the  nest. 
That  sent  him  from  his  senses  :  let  me 

go." 
Then  Bellicent  bemoan'd  herself  and 

said, 
"  Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness  ? 
Lo,    where  thy  father   Lot  beside   the 

hearth 
Lies  like  a  log,  and  all  but  smoulder'd 

out  ! 
For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the  King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons'  war, 
And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  territory, 
His  age  hath    slowly  droopt,  and   now 

lies  there 
A  yet- warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburiable. 
No  more  ;  nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor  speaks, 

nor  knows. 
And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full  love 
I  feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a  love  : 
Stay  therefore  thou  ;  red  berries  charm 

the  bird. 
And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts,  the 

wars, 


442 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor  pang ' 
Of  wrench'd  or  broken  limb  — ■  an  often 

chance 
In    those    brain-stunning    shocks,    and 

tourney-falls. 
Frights  to  my  heart  ;  but  stay  :  follow 

the  deer 
By  these  tall   iirs   and   our  fast-falling 

burns  ; 
So  make  tliy  manhood  mightier  day  by 

day  ; 
Sweet  is  the  chase  :  and  I  will  seek  thee 

out 
Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to  grace 
Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my  prone 

year. 
Till  falling  into  Lot's  forgetfulness 
i  know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  anything. 
Stay,  my  best  son  I  ye  are  yet  more  boy 

than  man." 

Then  Gareth,  "An  ye  hold  me  yet  for 
child, 

Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the  child. 

For,  mother,  there  was  once  a  King,  like 
ours  ; 

The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and  mar- 
riageable, 

Ask'd  for  a  bride  ;   and   thereupon  the 
King 

Set  two  before  him.    One  was  fair,  strong, 
arm'd  — 

But  to  be  won  by  force  —  and  many  men 

Desired  her  ;  one,  good  lack,  no  man  de- 
sired. 

And  these  were  the   conditions  of  the 
King: 

That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he 
needs 

Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man  de- 
sired, 

A  red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so 
vile. 

That  evermore  she  long'd  to  hide  herself, 

Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye  — 

Yea  —  .some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they  died 
of  her. 

And  one  —  they  call'd  her   Fame  ;  and 
one,  0  Mother, 

How  can  ye  keep  me  tether'd  to  you  — 
Shame  ! 

Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I  do. 

Follow  the  deer  1  follow  the  Christ,  the 
King, 
"  Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong,  fol- 
low the  King  — 

Else,  wherefore  born  ?  " 


To  whom  the  mother  said,, 
"  Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who  deem 

him  not. 
Or  will  not   deem   him,  wholly  proven 

King  — 
Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I  knew  him 

King, 
When  I  was  frequent  with  him  in  my 

youth, 
And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  and  doubted 

him 
No  more  than  he,  himself  ;  but  felt  him 

mine. 
Of  closest  kin  to  me  :  yet  — •  wilt  thou 

leave 
Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk  thine 

all,* 
Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven 

King  ? 
Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round  his 

birth 
Hath   lifted   but  a  little.     Stay,  sweet 

son." 

And  Gareth  answer'd  quickly,  "Not 
an  hour. 
So  that  ye  yield  me  —  I  will  walk  thro' 

fire. 
Mother,  to  gain  it  —  your  full   leave   to 

Not  proven,  who  swept  the  dust  of  ruin'd 

Rome 
From  off"  the  threshold  of  the  realm,  and 

crush'd 
The  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people  free  ? 
Who  should  be  King  save  him  Avho  makes 

us  free  ? " 

So   when  the  Queen,   who  long  had 

sought  in  vain 
To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which  he 

grew. 
Found  her  son's  will  unwaveringly  one. 
She  answer'd  craftily,  "Will  ye  walk  thro' 

fire? 
Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed  the 

smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must  :  only  one  proof, 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 

knight. 
Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me, 
Thy  mother,  — I  demand." 

And  Gareth  cried, 
"  A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay  —  quick  !  the  proof  to  prove  me  to 
the  quick  !  " 


GAEETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


But  slowly  spake  the  mother,  looking 
at  him, 

"  Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to  Ar- 
thur's hall, 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and 
drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen- 
knaves, 

And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across  the 
bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth  and 
a  day." 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when 
her  son 
Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 
Low  down  thro'  villain  kitchen-vassalage, 
Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely- 
proud 
To  pass  thereby  ;  so  should  he  rest  with 

her, 
Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of 
arms. 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then  replied, 

"The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in 
soul, 

And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.     Thy  son  am  I, 

And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must 
obey. 

I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will  ; 

For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire  my- 
self 

To  serve  with  scullions  and  with  kitchen- 
knaves  ; 

Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  —  no,  not  tlie 
King." 


443 

The  mother's 


Gareth  awhile  linger'd. 

eye. 
Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would 

go. 
And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe'er  he 

turn'd, 
Perplext   his  outward   purpose,   till   an 

hour. 
When  waken'd  by  the  wind  which  with 

full  voice 
Swept  bellowing  thro'  the  darkness  on  to 

dawn. 
He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his 

birth. 
Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him, 

went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the 

.soil. 
Southward  they  set  their  faces.    The  birds 

made 
Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid 

air. 
The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken'd  into 

green, 
And  the   live   green   had  kindled  into 

flowers, 
For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on 
the  plain 
That  broaden'd  toward  the  base  of  Game- 
lot, 
Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 
Rolling  her  smokeabout  the  Royal  mount. 
That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the 
field. 


444 


GARETH   AND    LYNETTE. 


At  times  the  summit  of  the   high  citj' 

flash'd  ; 
At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half-way 

down 
Prick'd  thio'  the  mist  ;  at  times  the  great 

gate  shone 
Only,  that  open'd  on  the  field  below  : 
Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disappear'd. 

Then  those  who  went  with  Gareth  were 

amazed, 
One  crying,  "  Let  us  go  no  farther,  lord. 
Here  is  a  city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  Kings."    The  second  echo'd  him, 
"  Lord^  we  have  heard  from  our  wise  men 

at  home 
To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not  the 

King, 
But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 
Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sorcery 
And  Merlin's  glamour."     Then  the  first 

again, 
"Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere. 
But  all  a  vision." 

Gareth  answer' d  them 
With  laughter,  swearing  he  had  glamour 

enow 
In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth 

and  hopes, 
To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian  sea  ; 
So  push'd  them  all  unwilling  toward  the 

gate. 
And   there   was   no  gate  like   it   under 

heaven  ; 
For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which  was 

lined 
And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood  :  all  her  dress 
Wept  from  her   sides  as  water  flowing 

away ; 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  goodly 

arms 
Stretch'd  under  all  the  cornice  and  up- 
held : 
And  drops  of  water  fell  fro7n  either  hand  ; 
And  do\\^i  from  one  a  sword  was  hung, 

from  one 
A  censer,  either  worn   with    wind   and 

storm  ; 
And  o'er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred  fish  ; 
And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and  right. 
Were  Arthur's  wars  in  weird  de\dces  done. 
New    things   and  old   co-twisted,  as   if 

Time 
Were  nothing,  so  iiiveterately,  that  men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there  ;  and  over  all 


High  on  the  top  were  those  three  Queens, 

the  fi  lends 
Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  Ids 

need. 

Then  those  with  Gareth  for  so  long  a 

space 
Stared   at   the   figures,    that   at   last  it 

seem'd 
The  dragon -boughts  and  elvish  emblem - 

ings 
Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and  curl  : 

they  call'd 
To  Gareth,  "  Lord,  the  gateway  is  alive." 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt  his 

eyes 
So  long,  that  ev'n  to  him  they  seem'd  to 

move. 
Out  of  the  city  a  blast  of  music  peal'd. 
Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three,  to 

whom 
From    out  thereunder  came  an   ancient 

man. 
Long-bearded,  saying,  "Who  be  ye,  my 

sons  ? " 

Then  Gareth,   "We  be  tillers  of  the 

soil. 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to  see 
The  glories  of  our  King  :  but  these,  my 

men, 
(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the  mist,) 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,   or 

come 
From   fairyland  ;   and  whether   this  be 

built 
By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings  and  Queens ; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all. 
Or  all  a  \'ision  :  and  this  nuisic  now 
Hath  scared  them  both,  but  tell   thou 

these  the  truth." 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer  play- 
ing on  him 

And  saying,  "  Son,  I  have  seen  the  good 
ship  sail 

Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in  the 
heavens, 

And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air  : 

And  here  is  truth  ;  but  an  it  please  thee 
not. 

Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told  it 
me. 

For  truly,  as  thou  sayest,  a  Fairy  King 

And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city, 
son  ; 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


445 


They  came,  from  out  a  sacred  mountain- 
cleft 
Towai'd  the  sunrise,  eacli  with  harp  in 

hand, 
And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 
And  as  thou  sayest  it  is  enclianted,  son, 
For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
Saving  the  King  ;    tho'  some   there   be 

that  liold 
The  King  a  shadow,  and  the  city  real : 
Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so  thou 

pass 
Beneath   this  archway,  then  wilt  thou 

become 
A  thrall  to  his   enchantments,  for  the 

King 
Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as   is   a 

shame 
A  man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the 

which 
No  man  can  keep  ;  but,  so  thou  dread  to 

swear. 
Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but  abide 
Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 
For,  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city  is 

built 
To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all. 
And  therefore  built  forever." 

Gareth  spake 
Anger'd,  "Old  Master,  reverence  thine 

own  beard 
That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and 

seems 
Wellnigh  as  long  as  thou  art  statured  tall! 
Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that  hath 

been 
To  thee  fair-spoken  ?  " 

But  the  Seer  replied, 
"  Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of  the 

Bards  ? 
'Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation. 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  '  ? 
I  mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest  me. 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not  who 
Thou  seemest,  but  I  know  thee  who  thou 

art. 
And   now  thou   goest   up   to  mock  the 

King, 
Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any 

lie." 

TJnmockingly  the  mocker  ending  here 
Turu'd  to  the  right,  and  past  along  the  j 
plain  ;  I 


Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said,  "  My 

men, 
Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a  little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enterprise. 
Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she,  nor  I : 
Well,  we  will  make  amends." 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laugh'd,  then  enter'd  with 

his  twain 
Camelot,  a  city  of  shadowy  palaces. 
And  stately,   rich   in   emblem    and   the 

work 
Of  ancient  kings  who  did  their  days  in 

stone  ; 
Which  Merlin's  hand,  the  Mage  at  Ar- 
thur's court. 
Knowing  all  arts,  had  touch'd,  and  every- 
where 
At  Arthur's  ordinance,  tipt  with  lessen- 
ing peak 
And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire  to 

heaven. 
And  ever  and  anon  a  knight  would  pass 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall  :  his  arms 
Clash'il  ;   and   the   sound   was  good   to 

Gareth's  ear. 
And  out  of  bower  aiul  casement  shyly 

glanced 
Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars  of 

love  ; 
And  all  about  a  healthful  people  stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a  gracious  king. 

Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending  heard 
A  voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  beheld 
Far  over  heads  in  that  long- vaulted  hall 
The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the  King 
Throned,    and   delivering    doom  —  and 

look'd  no  more  — 
But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering  in 

his  ears, 
And  thought,  "  For  this  half-shadow  of 

a  lie 
The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when  I 

speak." 
Yet    pressing  on,    tho'   all    in   fear  to 

find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 
Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged  about 

the  throne, 
Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  anil  faith  in  their  great  King,  . 

w'ith  pure 
Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory, 
And  glory  gain'd,  and  evennore  to  gain. 


446 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


Tlien  came  a  widow  crying  to  the  King, 
''A  boon,  Sir  King  !    Thy  lather,  Uther, 

reft 
From  my  dead  lord  a  field  with  violence  : 
For  howsoe'er  at  first  he  profl'er'd  gold, 
Yet,   for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our 

eyes, 
We  yielded  not  ;  and  then  he  reft  us  of 

it 
Perforce,  and  left  us   neither   gold  nor 

field." 

Said   Arthur,    "  "Whether  woiild   ye? 

gold  or  field  ? " 
To  whom  the  woman  weeping,   ' '  Nay, 

my  lord. 
The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  husband's 

eye." 

And  Arthur,  "  Have  thy  pleasant  field 

again, 
And  thrice   the   gold   for    TJther's  use 

thereof, 
According  to  the  years.    No  boon  is  here, 
But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven  true. 
Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his  father 

did 
Would  shape  himself  a  right  !  " 

And  while  she  past, 
Came  j^et  another  widow  crying  to  him, 
"  A   boon,    Sir   King  !      Thine   enemy, 

King,  am  I. 
With  thine  own  hand  thou  slewest  my 

dear  lord, 
A  knight  of  Uther,  in  the  Barons'  war, 
When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and 

fought 
Against   thee,  saying   thou  wert  basely 

born. 
I  held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask  thee 

aught. 
Yet  lo  !  my  husband's  brother  had  my 

son 
Thrall'd  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved 

him  dead  ; 
And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 
Which  thou  that  slewest  the  sire   hast 

left  the  son. 
So  tho'  I  scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate. 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle 

for  me, 
Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for  my 

son." 

Then  strode  a  good  knight  forward, 
crying  to  him, 


"A  boon.  Sir  King!  I  am  her  kins- 
man, I. 

Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay  the 
man." 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  and 

cried, 
"A   boon.    Sir   King!    ev'n   that  thou 

grant  her  none, 
This  railer,  that   hath   mock'd   thee  in 

full  hall  — 
None  ;  or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyvG 

and  gag." 

But  Arthur,  "We  sit.  King,  to  help 

the  wrong'd 
Thro'  all  our  realm.     The  woman  loves 

her  lord. 
Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with   thy  loves 

and  hates  ! 
The  kings  of  old  had  doom'd  thee  to  the 

flames, 
Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged  thee 

dead, 
And  Uther  slit  thy  tongue  :  but  get  the 

hence  — 
Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of  old 
Return  upon  me  !    Thou  that  art  her  kin, 
Go  likewise  ;  lay  him  low  and  slay  him 

not. 
But  bring  him  here,  that  I  may  judge 

the  light, 
According  to  the  justice  of  the  King  : 
Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that   deathless 

King 
Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man 

shall  die." 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of 

Mark, 
A  name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 
The  Cornish  king.     In    either  hand  he 

bore 
What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as 

shines 
A  field  of  charlock  in  the  .sudden  sun 
Between  two  showers,  a  cloth  of  palest 

gold, 
Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne, 

and  knelt. 
Delivering,    that   his    Lord,    the   vassal 

king, 
Was  ev'n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot ; 
For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his  grace 
Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram, 

knight. 
And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater  state, 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


447 


Being  a  king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him  this  large  honor  all  the 

more  ; 
So  pray'd  him  well  to  accept  this  clcrth 

of  gold, 
In  token  of  true  heart  and  fenlty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth, 

to  rend 
In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 
An   oak-tree   smoulder'd   there.     ' '  The 

goodly  knight  ! 
Wliat  !  shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand 

among  these  ? " 
Foi-,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long 

hall  ■ 
A  stately  pile,  —  whereof  along  the  front, 
Some   blazon'd,  some   but   carveu,  and 

some  blank, 
There  ran  a  treble  range  of  stony  shields, — 
Rose,  and  high-arching  overbrow'd  the 

heartli. 
And   under  every  shield   a  knight  was 

named  : 
For  this  was  Arthur's  custom  in  his  hall  ; 
When  some  good  knight  had  done  one 

noble  deed. 
His  arms  were  carven  only  ;  but  if  twain 
His  arms  were  blazon'd  also  ;  but  if  none 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without  a 

sign 
Saving  the  name  beneath  ;  and  Gareth 

saw 
The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon'd  rich  and 

bright, 
And  Modred's  blank  as  death  ;  and  Ar- 
thur ci'ied 
To  rend  the   cloth   and  cast   it  on  the 

hearth. 

"  More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of  his 

crown 
Than  make  him  knight  because  men  call 

Iniii  king. 
The  king.s  we  found,  ye  know  we  stay'd 

their  hands 
From  war  among   themselves,  but   left 

them  kings  ; 
Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merciful. 
Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers,  them 

we  enroU'd 
Among   us,    and    they   sit   within    our 

hall. 
But  Mark  hatli  tarnish'd  the  great  name 

of  king. 
As  Mark  would   sully  the   low  state  of 

churl  : 


And,  seeing   he  hath  sent  us   cloth  of 

gold, 
Return,  and  meet,  and  hold   him  from 

our  eyes, 
Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of 

lead. 
Silenced   forever  —  craven  —  a   man   of 

plots. 
Craft,   poisonous  counsels,   wayside  am- 

bushings  — 
No  fault  of  thine  :  let  Kay,  the  seneschal. 
Look  to  thv  wants,  and  send  thee  satis- 
fied- 
Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the  hand 

be  seen  ! " 

And    many  another  suppliant  crying 

came 
With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast 

and  man. 
And  evermore  a  knight  would  ride  away. 

Last  Gareth  leaning  both  handsheavily 
Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain,  his 

men, 
Approach'd  between   them    toward   the 

King,  and  ask'd, 
"A  boon,   Sir   King  (his  voice  was   all 

ashamed), 
For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hungei- 

wom 
I  seem  —  leaning  on  these  ?  grant  me  to 

serve 
For  meat  and  drink  among  thy  kitchen- 
knaves 
A  twelvemonth  and  a  day,  nor  seek  my 

name. 
Hereafter  I  will  fight." 

To  him  the  King, 
"A  goodly  youth  and  worth  a  goodlier 

boon  ! 
But  an  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then  must 

Kay, 
The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks,  be 

thine." 

He  rose  and  past ;  then  Kay,  a  man 
of  mien 
Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  itself 
Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

"  Lo  ye  now  ! 

This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some  Ab- 
bey, where, 

God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis 
enow. 


448 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


However  that  might  chance  !  but  an  he 

work, 
Like  any  pigeon  will  I  cram  his  crop, 
Aiid  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any  hog." 

Then   Ijancelot   standing  near,    ' '  Sir 

Seneschal, 
Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,   and  gray, 

and  all  the  hounds  ; 
A  horse  thou  knowest,  a  man  thou  dost 

not  know  : 
Broad  brows  and  fair,  a  fluent  hair  and 

line. 
High  nose,  a  nostril  large  and  fine,  and 

hands 
Large,  fair  and  fine  !  —  Some  young  lad's 

mystery  — 
But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king's  hall,  the 

boy 
Is  noble-natured.     Treat  him  with  all 

grace. 
Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy  judg- 
ing of  him." 

Then  Kay,  ' '  What  murmurest  thou 
of  mystery  ? 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  jjoison  the 
King's  dish  ? 

Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like  :  mystery  ! 

Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had  ask'd 

For  horse  and  armor  :  fair  and  fine,  for- 
sooth ! 

Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands  ?  but  see 
thou  to  it 

That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot,  some 
fine  day 

Undo  thee  not  —  and  leave  my  man  to 
me." 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen  vassalage  ; 
Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the 

door, 
And  couch'd  at  night  witli  grimy  kitchen - 

knaves. 
And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleasantly, 
But  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him  not 
Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  labor 

him 
Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and 

set  ->-'\r^ 

To  turn  the  l  jach,  draw  water,  or  hew 
wood, 

Or  grosser  tasks  ;  and  Gareth  bow'd  him- 
self 

With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and 
wrought 


All  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing  it. 
And  when  the  thralls   had  talk  among 

themselves, 
And  one  would  praise  the  love  that  linkt 

the  King 
And  Lancelot  —  how  the  King  had  saved 

his  life 
In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 

King's  — 
For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tournament, 
But   Arthur   mightiest   on    the    battle- 
field— 
Gareth  was  glad.     Or  if  some  other  told, 
How   once    the   wandering  forester    at 

dawn. 
Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy  seas. 
On  Caer-Eryri's  highest  found  the  King, 
A   naked   babe,  of  whom   the   Prophet 

spake, 
"  He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 
He   jjasses   and   is  heal'd    and    cannot 

die  "  — 
Gareth  was  glad.     But  if  their  talk  were 

foul. 
Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any  lark. 
Or  carol   some   old   roundelay,   and   so 

loud 
That  first  they  mock'd,  but,  after,  rev- 
erenced him. 
Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 
Of  knights,  who  sliced  a  red  life-bubbling 

way 
Thro'  twenty  folds  of  twisted  dragon, 

held 
All   in  a  gap-mouth'd   circle  his  good 

mates 
Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands, 
Charm'd  ;  tiU   Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal, 

would  come 
Blustering  upon   them,   like   a  sudden 

wind 
Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them  all 

apart. 
Or  when   the  thralls  had  sjiort  among 

themselves. 
So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery. 
He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or  stone. 
Was  counted  best  ;  and  if  there  chanced 

a  joust. 
So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to  go. 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he  saw 

the  knights 
Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring  wave, 
And  the  spear  spring,  and   good  horse 

reel,  the  boy 
Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 


GAJIETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


449 


So  for  a  month  he  WTOugli<  among  the 

thralls  ; 
But  in  the  weeks  tliat  follow' J,  the  good 

Queen, 
Repentant   of  the  word   she  made  him 

swear, 
And  saddening  in  her  childless   castle, 

sent, 
Between   the  increscent  and  decrescent 

moon. 
Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from 

his  vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a  squire  of 

Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney 

once, 
When  both  were  children,  and  in  lonely 

haunts 
Would   scratch  a   lagged   oval   on    the 

sand. 
And   each   at   eitlier   dash    from   either 

•  end  — 
Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than  Ga- 
reth joy. 
He  laugh'd  ;  he  sprang.      "Out  of  the 

smoke,  at  once 
I    leap   from    Satan's    foot    to    Peter's 

knee  — 
These  news  be  mine,  none  other's  —  nay, 

the  King's  — 
Descend   into   the   city  "  :   whereon   he 

sought 
The    King   alone,  and  found,  and   told 

him  all. 

"  I  have  stagger'd  thy  strong  Gawain 

in  a  tilt 
For,  pastime  ;    yea,    he  said   it  :   joust 

can  I. 
Make  me   thy  knight  —  in  secret  !    let 

my  name 
Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest,  I 

spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes." 

Here  the  King's  calm  eye 
Fell  on,  and  check'd,  and  made  him  flush, 

and  bow 
Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer'd 

him, 
' '  Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know  thee 

here. 
And  sent  her  wish  that  I  would   yield 

thee  thine. 
Make  thee  my  knight  ?  my  knights  are 

sworn  to  vows 

29 


Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness, 
And,  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 
And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King." 

Then  Gareth,    lightly  springing  from 

his  knees, 
"My  King,  for  hardihood  I  can  promise 

thee. 
For  uttermost  obedience  make  demand 
Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  SeneschaX 
Xo   mellow   master   of    the   meats   and 

drinks  ! 
And  as  for  love^Godwot,  I  love  not  yet, 
But  love  1  shall,  God  willing." 

And  the  King  — 
"  Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret  ?  yea, 

but  he, 
Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest  man. 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must 

know." 

"  Let   Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let 
Lancelot  know. 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest  !  " 

And  the  King  — 
"  But  wherefore  would   ye  men  should 

wonder  at  you  ? 
Nay,  rather  for  the   sake  of  me,  their 

King, 
And  the  deed's  sake  my  knighthood  do 

the  deed. 
Than  to  be  noised  of." 

Merrily  Gareth  ask'd, 
"  Have  I  not  earn'd  mv  cake  in  baking 

of  it  ? 
Let  be  my  name  until  I  make  my  name  ! 
My  deeds  will  .speak  :  it  is  but  for  a  day." 
So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's  arm 
Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half-unwill- 

Lovinghislustyyouthhoodyieldedtohim. 
Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  privily, 
"  I  have  given  him  the  first  ([uest  :  he  is 

not  proven. 
Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this  in 

hall. 
Thou   get  to  horse  and  follow   him  far 

away. 
Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en  nor 

slain." 

Then  that  same  day  there  past   into 
the  hall 
A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a  brow 


450 


GAEETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


May-blossom,  and  a  cheek  of  apple-blos- 
som, 

Hawk-eyes  ;  and  lightly  was  her  slender 
nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a  flower  ; 

She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and 
cried, 

'.'  0  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe 
without. 

See  to  the  foe  within  !  bridge,  ford,  be- 
set 

By  bandits,  every  one  that  owns  a  tower 

The  Lord  for  half  a  league.  Why  sit  ye 
theie  ? 

Eest  would  I  not,  Sir  King,  an  1  were 
king. 

Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 

From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar- 
cloth 

From  that  blest  blood  it  is  a  sin  to  spill. " 

"Comfort  thyself,"   said  Arthur,  "I 

nor  nune 
Rest :  so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows 

they  swore, 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall 

be 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
"What  is  thy  name  ?  thy  need  ? " 

"  My  name  ? "  she  said  — 
"Lynette  my  name  ;  noble;  my  need, 

a  knight 
To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 
A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands. 
And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  my- 
self. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous  :  a  river 
Runs  in  three  loops   about   her  living- 
place  ; 
And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three 

knights 
Defend   the   passings,    brethren,  and   a 

fourth 
And  of  that  four   the  mightiest,  holds 

her  stay'd 
In  her  own  castle  and  so  besieges  her 
To  break  her  will,  and  make   her  wed 

with  him ; 
And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou  send 
To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief 

man 
Sir   Lancelot   whom   he  trusts  to  over- 
throw. 
Then  wed,  with  glory  ;  but  she  will  not 
wed 


Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a  holy  life. 
Now  therefore  have  I  come  for  Lancelot." 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth 

ask'd, 
"Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to 

cmsh 
All  wrongeis  of  the  Realm.     But  say. 

these  four. 
Who  be  they  ?    What  the  fashion  of  the 

men  ? " 

"They  be  of  foolish  fashion,    0  Sir 

King, 
The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 
Who  ride  abroad  and  do  but  what  they 

will ; 
Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment, 
Such  as  have  nor  law  nor  king  ;  and  three 

of  these 
Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves 

the  Day, 
Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and 'Even- 
ing-Star, 
Being  strong  fools  ;  and  never  a  whit 

more  wise 
The  fourth,  who  alway  rideth  arm'd  in 

black, 
A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  savagery. 
He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener 

Death, 
And  wears  a  helmet  mounted  with  a  skull 
And  bears  a  skeleton  figured  on  his  arms, 
To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape  the 

three 
Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless  niglit. 
And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty 

men. 
And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lancelcit." 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call'd  from  where 
he  rose, 

A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the 
throng, 

"  A  boon,  Sir  King  —  this  quest  ! "  then 
■ —  for  he  niark'd 

Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a  wounded 
bull  — 

' '  Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  I, 

And  I  can  topple  over  a  hundred  such. 

Thy  promise.  King,"  and  Arthur  glan- 
cing at  him. 

Brought  down  a  momentary  brow. 
"Rough,  sudden, 


GARETH   AND   lVNETTE. 


451 


And  pardonable,  worthy  to  he  knight  — 
Go    tnerefore,"    and    all    hearers    were 
amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel's  forehead  shame, 
pride,  wrath, 

Slew  the  May-white :  she  lifted  either  arm, 

"  Fie  on  thee.  King  !  I  ask'd  for  thy 
chief  knight, 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen- 
knave." 

Then  are  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her, 
turn'd, 

Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the  King, 

Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street, 
and  past 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  with- 
out, beside 

The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring  "  kitch- 
en-knave." 

Now  two  great  entries  open'd  from  tlae 

hall. 
At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a  range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King  would 

pace 
At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and  wood. 
And  down  from  this  a  lordly  stairway 

sloped 
Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  of 

towers. 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past  the 

King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and 

rose 
High  that  the  highest-crested  helm  could 

ride 
Therethro'  nor  graze  :  and  by  this  entry 

fled 
The  damsel  in  her  \vrath,  and  on  to  this 


Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without  the 

door 
King  Arthur's  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a 

town, 
A  warhorse  of  the  best,  and  near  it  stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  foUow'd 

him  : 
This  bare  a  maiden  shield,  a  casque  ;  that 

held 
The  horse,  the  spear ;  whereat  Sir  Ga- 
reth loosed 
A  cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone  to 

heel, 
A  cloth  of  roughest  web,  and  cast  it  down, 
And  from  it  like  a  luel-smother'd  fire. 
That  lookt  half-dead,  brake  bright,  and 

flash' d  as  those 
Dull-coated   things,   that  making  slide 

apart 
Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath  there 

burns 
A  jewel'd  harness,  ere  they  pass  and  fly. 
So  Gareth  ere  he  parted  flash'd  in  arms. 
Then  while  he  donn'd  the  helm,  and  took 

the  shield 
And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a  spear, 

of  grain 
Storm-strengthen'd  on  a  windy  site,  and 

tipt 
With  trenchant  steel,  around  him  slowly 

prest 
The  people,  and  from  out  of  kitchen  came 
The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who 

had  work'd 
Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could 

but  love, 
]\Iounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  cap.s 

and  cried, 
"  God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fellow- 
ship ! " 


452 


GAEETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth 

rode 
Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  without 

the  gate. 

So  Gareth  jiast  with  joy  ;  but  as  the 

cur 
Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere 

his  cause 
Be   cool'd    by  fighting,    follows,    being 

named. 
His  owner,  but  remembers  all,  and  growls 
Remembeiing,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the  door 
Mutter'd  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he  used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

"  Bound  upon  a  quest 
With  horse  and  arras  —  the  King  hath 

past  his  time  — 
My   scullion    knave !     Thralls   to   your 

work  again, 
For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle  mine  ! 
Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve  in 

East? 
Begone  !  —  my  knave  !  —  belike  and  like 

enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  Ms 

youth 
So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his 

prime  — 
Crazed  !     How  the  villain  lifted  u^)  his 

voice, 
Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a  kitchen- 
knave. 
Tut :  he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with 

me. 
Till  peacock'd  up  with   Lancelot's   no- 
ticing. 
Well  —  I  will  after  my  loud  knave,  and 

learn 
Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master  yet. 
Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my 

lance 
Hold,  by  God's  grace,  he  shall  into  the 

mire  — 
Thence,  if  the   King  awaken  from  his 

craze. 
Into  the  smoke  again." 

But  Lancelot  said, 
"  Kay,  wherefore  will  ye  go  against  the 

King, 
For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail. 
But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in  thee  ? 
Abide  :  take  counsel ;  for  this  lad  is  great 
And  1  isty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance 

and  sword." 


"Tut,  tell  not  me,"  said  Kay,  "ye  aro 

overfine 
To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish  cour- 

tesies." 
Then  mounted,  on  thro'  silent  faces  rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond  the 

gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering  yet 
Mutter'd  the  damsel,    "  Wherefore  did 

the  King 
Scorn  me  ?  for,  were  Sir  Lancelot  lackt, 

at  least 
He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of  those 
Who  tilt  for  lady's  love  and  glory  here. 
Rather  than  —  0  sweet  heaven  !    0   fie 

upon  him  — 
His  kitchen-knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier 

than  he) 
Shining  in  arms,  "Damsel,  the  quest  is 

mine. 
Lead,  and  1  follow."     She  thereat,  as  one 
That  smells  a  foul-flesh'd  agaric  in  the 

holt. 
And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland 

thing. 
Or  shrew,  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender  nose 
With  petulant  thumb  and  finger  shrill- 
ing, "Hence  ! 
Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen-grease. 
And  look  who  comes  behind,"  for  there 

was  Kay. 
"  Knowest  thou  not  me?  thy  master? 

I  am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth." 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
' '  Master  no  more  !  too  well  I  know  thee, 

ay  — 

The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur's 

haU." 
"Have  at  thee  then,"  said  Kay  :  they 

shock'd,  and  Kay 
Fell    shoulder-slipt,    and    Gareth    cried 

jigain, 
"  Lead,  and  I  follow,"  and  fast  away  she 

fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to  fly 
Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good 

horse 
Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the 

beat, 
Perforce  she  stay'd,  and  overtaken  spoke. 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


453 


"  What  doest  thou,   sciillion,   in  my 
fellowship  ? 
Deem'st  thou  that  I  accept  thee  aught 

the  more 
Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  device 
Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappiiiess, 
Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy  mas- 
ter —  thou  !  — 
Dish-washer  and  broach-turner,  loon  !  — 

to  me 
Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  before. " 

"  Damsel,"  Sir  Garethanswer'd  gently, 
"say 
Whate'er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe'er  ye  say, 
I  leave  not  till  I  finish  this  fair  quest, 
Or  die  therefor." 

"  Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it  ? 
Sweet  lord,  how  like  a  noble  knight  he 

talks  ! 
The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the  man- 
ner of  it. 
But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met  with, 

knave, 
And  then  by  such  a  one  that  thou  for  all 
The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 
Shall  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the 
face." 

"I   shall  assay,"  said  Gareth  with  a 

smile 
That  madden'd  her,  and  away  she  flash'd 

again 
Down  the  long  avenues  of  a  boundless 

wood, 
And  Gareth   following  was    again    be- 

knaved. 

"  Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I  have  miss'd  the 
only  way  j 

Where  Arthur's  men  are  set  along  the 
wood  ; 

The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as 
leaves  : 

If  both  be  slain,  I  am  rid  of  thee  ;  but 

yet, 

Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit  of 
thine  ?  i 

Fight,  an  thou  canst :  I  have  miss'd  the 
only  way." 

So  till  the  dusk  that  follow'd  evensong 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled  : 
Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted,  1 

saw, 
Bowl-shapea,  thro'tops  of  many  thousand 

pines 


A  gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward  —  in  the  deeps  whereof  a 

mere. 
Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle-owl, 
Under  the  half-dead  sunset  glared  ;  and 

cries 
Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  servingman 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and 

crying, 
"They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him 

in  the  mere." 
Then  Gareth,  "  F.ound  am  I  to  right  the 

wrong'd, 
But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with 

thee." 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contemptu- 
ously, 
"  Lead  and  I  follow,"  Gareth  cried  again, 
"  Follow,  I  lead  !  "  so  down  among  the 

pines 
He  plunged  ;  and  there,  blackshadow'd 

nigh  the  mere, 
And   mid-thigh-deep   in  bulrushes  and 

reed, 
I  Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
I  A  stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him  in 

it. 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but 

three 
Fled  thro'  the  pines  ;  and  Gareth  loosed 

the  stone 
From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere  be- 
side 
Tumbled  it ;  oilily  bubbled  up  the  mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on  free 
I  feet 

Set  him,  a  stalwart  Baron,  Arthur's  friend. 

"  Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these  cai- 
tiff rogues 
Had  wreak'd   themselves  on  me  ;  good 

cause  is  theirs 
To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever  been 
To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  vermin 

here 
Drown  him,  and  with  a  stone  about  hif 

neck  ; 
And  under  this  wan  water  many  of  them 
Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  the  stone, 
And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a  grimly  light 
Dance  on  the  mere.     Good  now,  ye  have 

saved  a  life 
Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of  this 

wood. 
And  fain  would  I  reward  thee  worship- 
fully. 
What  guerdon  will  ye  ?" 


454 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


Gareth  sharply  spake, 
"None  !  for  the  deed's  sake  have  I  done 

the  deed, 
In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 
But  will  ye  yield  this  damsel   harbor- 
age?" 

Whereat  the  Baron  saying,   "I  well 

believe 
Ye  be  of  Arthur's  Table,"  a  light  laugh 
Broke  from   Lynette,    "Ay,   truly  of  a 

truth, 
And  in  a  sort,  being  Arthur's  kitchen- 
knave  !  — 
But  deem  not  I  accept  thee  aught  the 

more. 
Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy 

spit 
Down  on  a  rout  of  craven  foresters. 
A  thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter'd 

them. 
Nay  —  for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen 

still. 
But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harborage. 
Well." 

So  she  spake.     A  league  beyond  the 

wood, 
All  in  a  full-fair  manor  and  a  rich. 
His  towers  -where  that  day  a  feast  had 

been 
Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a  viand  left, 
And   many  a  costly  cate,  received   the 

three. 
And  there  they  placed  a  peacock  in  his 

pride 
Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron  set 
Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she  rose. 

"  Meseems,  that  here  is  much  discour- 

tesj'. 
Setting  this  knave.  Lord  Baron,  at  my 

side. 
Hear  me  —  this  mom  I  stood  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
And  pray'd  the  King  would  gi-ant  me 

Lancelot 
To  fight  the   brotherhood  of  Day  and 

Night  — 
The  last  a  monster  unsubduable 
Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I  call'd  — 
Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen- 
knave, 
'  The  quest  is  mine  ;  thy  kitchen-knave 

am  I, 
And  mighty  thro'  thy  meats  and  drinks 

am  I.' 


Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad  replies 
'  Go  therefore,'  and  so  gives  the  quest  to 

him  — 
Him  —  here  —  a  villain  fitter  to  stick 

swine 
Than   ride   abroad   redressing    women"  s 

wrong. 
Or  sit  beside  a  noble  gentlewoman. " 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part-amazed, 

the  lord 
Now  look'd  at  one  and  now  at  other, 

left 
The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his  jiride. 
And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board, 
Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then  began. 

' '  Friend,  whether  ye  be  kitchen-knave, 
or  not. 

Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden's  fantasy, 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the 
King, 

Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I  ask  not  :  but  thou  stiikest  a  strong 
stroke. 

For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  there- 
withal. 

And  saver  of  my  life  ;  and  therefore  now. 

For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with, 
weigh 

Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel 
back 

To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  King. 

Thy  pardon  ;  I  but  speak  for  thine  avail. 

The  saver  of  my  life." 

And  Gareth  said, 
"  Full  pardon,  but  I  follow  up  the  quest, 
Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death  and 
Hell."' 

So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose 
life  he  saved 

Had,  some  brief  space,  convey'd  them  on 
their  way 

And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir  Ga- 
reth spake, 

"Lead  and  I  follow."  Haughtily  she 
replied, 

"I  fly  no  more  :  I  allow  thee  for  an 

hour. 
Lion  and  stoat  have  isled  together,  knave, 
In   time   of  flood.      Nay,    furthermore, 

methinks 
Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.     Back  wilt 

thou,  fool? 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


455 


For  hard  by  liere  is  one  will  ovei'tlirow 
And  slay  thee  :  then  will  1  to  court  again, 
And  shame  the  King  for  only  yielding 

me 
My   champion    from    the  ashes    of   his 

hearth." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer  d  cour- 
teously, 

"'Say  thou  thy  say,  and  1  will  do  my 
deed. 

Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou  wilt 
find 

My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers,  who  lay 

Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the  King's 
son." 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those  long 

loops 
Wherethro'  the  serpent  river  coil'd,  they 

came. 
Rough-thicketed   were   the   banks   and 

steep  ;  the  stream 
Full,  narrow  ;  this  a  bridge  of  single  arc 
Took  at  a  leap  ;  and  on  the  further  side 
Arose  a  silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Leut-lily  in 

hue, 
Save   that   the   dome  was   purple,    and 

above. 
Crimson,  a  slender  banneret  fluttering. 
And  therebefore  the  lawless  warrior  paced 
Unarm'd,  and  calling,  "Damsel,  is  this 

he. 
The  champion  ye  have  brought  from  Ar- 
thur's hall  ? 
For  whom  we  let  thee   pass."     "Nay, 

nay,"  she  said, 
"  Sir  Morning-Star.     The  King  in  utter 

scoi'n 
Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent 

thee  here 
His  kitchen-knave  :    and  look  thou  to 

thyself : 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 
And  slay  thee  unarm'd  :  he  is  not  knight 

but  knave." 

Then  at  his  call,  "O  daughters  of  the 
Dawn, 

And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star,  ap- 
proach, 

Arm  me,"  from  out  the  silken  curtain- 
folds 

Barefooted  and  bareheaded  three  fair 
girls 

In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came  :  their  feet 


In  dewy  grasses  glisten'd  ;  and  the  hair 
All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with 

gem 
Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 
These  arm'd  him  in  blue  arms,  and  gave 

a  shield 
Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning  star. 
And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the  knight, 
Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse  was 

brought. 
Glorying ;   and   in   the  stream  beneath 

him,  shone, 
Innuingled  with  Heaven's  azure  waver- 

ingly, 
The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet. 
His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the  star. 

Then  she  that  watch'd  him,  "  Where- 
fore stare  ye  so  ? 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear :  there  yet  is 
time  : 

Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to 
horse. 

Who  will  cry  shame  ?  Thou  art  not 
knight  but  knave." 

Said  Gareth,  "  Damsel,  whether  knave 

or  knight, 
Far  liever  had  I  fight  a  score  of  times 
Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  revile. 
Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who  fights 

for  thee  ; 
But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine  arms. 

I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him." 

And  he  that  bore 
The  star,  being  mounted,  cried  from  o'er 

the  bridge, 
' '  A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn  of 

me ! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with 

scorn. 
For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  furthei 

wrong 
Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his 

horse 
And  arme,  and  so  return  him  to  the  King. 
Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly, 

knave. 
Avoid  :  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady." 

' '  Dog,  thou  liest. 
I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine 
own." 


456 


GAKETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


He  spake  ;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the  two 
Shock'd  on  the  central  bridge,  and  either 

S2)ear 
Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight 

at  once, 
Hurl'd  as  a  stone  from  out  of  a  catapult 
Beyond   his  horse's    crupper    and    the 

bridge, 
Fell,  as  if  dead ;  but  quickly  rose  and 

drew. 
And  Garetli  lash'd  so  fiercely  with  his 

brand 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down  the 

bridge. 
The     damsel    crying,     "Well-stricken, 

kitchen-knave  ! " 
Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven  ;  but  one 

stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on  the 

ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall'n,  "Take  not  my 

life  :  I  yield." 
And  Gareth,  "  So  this  damsel  ask  it  of 

me 
Good  —  1  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace." 
She  reddening,  "  Insolent  scullion  :  I  of 

thee  ? 
1  bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask'd  !" 
"  Then  shall  he  die."    And  Gareth  there 

unlaced 
His  helmet  as   to   slay   him,    but    she 

shriek 'd, 
"  Be  not  so  hardy,  .scullion,  as  to  slay 
One   nobler  than  thyself"     "Damsel, 

thy  charge 
Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me.    Knight, 
Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command.    Arise 
And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall,  and 

say 
His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee.     See 

thou  crave 
His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his  laws. 
Myself,  when  I   return,  will   plead  for 

thee. 
Thy   shield   is    mine  —  farewell ;    and, 

damsel,  thou 
Lead,  and  I  follow." 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 
Then  when  he  came   upon   her,  spake, 

"Methought, 
Knave,  when  1  watch'd  thee  striking  on 

the  bridge 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 
A  little   faintlier :    but   the  wind   hath 

changed : 


I  scent  it  twentyfold."     And  then  she 

sang, 
"  '0  morning  star'  (not  that  tall  felon 

there 
Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or  some  device,  hast  foully  overthrown), 
'  0  morning  star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 
0  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven 

true, 
Smile    sweetly,    thou  !    my    love    hath 

smiled  on  me. ' 

' '  But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and 
away. 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a 

ford—    • 
The  second  brother  in  their  fool's  para- 
ble- 
Will   pay  thee   all   thy  wages,    and   to 

boot. 
Care  not  for  shame  :  thou  art  not  knighi 
but  knave." 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd,  laugh- 

"  Parables  ?      Hear   a    parable   of    the 

knave. 
When  I  was  kitchen-knave  among   the 

rest 
Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my  cov 

mates 
Own'd  a  rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast  his 

coat, 
'Guard  it,'  and  there  was  none  to  med- 
dle with  it. 
And  such  a  coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the 

King 
Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a  dog  am  1, 
To  worry,  and  not  to  flee  —  and  —  knight 

or  knave  — 
The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as  full 

knight 
Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister's  freeing." 

"  Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 
Ay,  knave,  because   thou   strikest  as  a 

knight 
Being  but   knave,    I  hate   thee  all  the 

more." 

"  Fair  damsel,  ye  should  worship  me 
the  more. 
That,  being  but  knave,  I    throw  thine 
enemies." 

"Ay,  ay,"  she  said,  "but  thou  shalt 
meet  thy  match." 


GARETH  AND   LYNETTE. 


457 


So  when  they  touch'd  tlie  second  river- 
loop, 
Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all   in 

mail 
Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noon- 
day Sun 
Beyond=^  I'aging  shallow.      As  if  the 

Hower, 
That  blows  a  globe  of  after  arrowlets, 
Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  Hash'd  the 

fierce  shield, 
All  sun  ;   and  Garcth's  eyes  had  flying 

blots 
Before  them  wlien  he  turn'd  from  watch- 
ing him. 
He   fi'om   beyond   the    roaring   shallow 

roar'd, 
*'  What   doest    thou,    brother,    in    my 

marches  here  ? " 
And   she   athwart   the   shallow   shrill'd 

again, 
"  Here  is  a  kitchen-knave  from  Arthur's 

hall 
Hath  overthrown  thy  brothei-,  and  hath 

his  arms." 
"Ugh  !"  cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring  up 

a  red 
And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness, 
Push'd  horse  across  the  foamings  of  the 

ford. 
Whom  Gareth  met  midstream  :  no  room 

was  there 
For  lance  or  tourney-skill  :  four  strokes 

they  struck 
With  sword,    and   these  were   mighty ; 

the  new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed  ;  but  as 

the  Sun 
Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike  the 

fifth. 
The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the  stream, 

the  stream 
Descended,    and    the    Sun   was   wash'd 

away. 

Then   Gareth   laid   his  lance  athwart 

the  ford  ; 
So  drew  him  home  ;  but  he  that  would 

not  fight, 
As  being  all  bone-battered  on  the  rock. 
Yielded  ;   and  Gareth   sent   him  to  the 

King. 
"  Myself  when  I    return  will   plead  for 

thee. 
Lead,  and  1  follow."     Quietly  she  led. 
"  Hath    not    the    good   wind,    damsel, 

champed  again  ? " 


"Nay,  not  a  point  :  nor  art  thou  victor 

here. 
There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford  ; 
His  horse  thereon  stumbled  —  ay,  for  I 

saw  it. 

"  '  0  Sun  '  (not  this  strong  fool  whom 

thou,  Sir  Knave, 
Hast  overthrown  thro' mere  unhappiness), 
'  0  Sun,  that  wakenest   all   to  bliss  or 

pain, 
0  moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again, 
Shine    sweetly  :    twice    my   love    hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong  or 

of  love  ? 
Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thou  wert  nobly 

Ijorn, 
Thou   hast  a   pleasant   presence.     Yea, 

perchance,  — 

"  '  0   dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the 

sun, 
0  dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is 

done. 
Blow  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath  smiled 

on  me.' 

"What  knowest  thou  of  flowers,  ex- 
cept, belike, 

To  garnish  meats  with  ?  hath  not  our 
good  King 

Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitchen- 
dom, 

A  foolish  love  for  flowers  ?  what  stick  ye 
round 

The  pasty  ?  wherewithal  deck  the  boar's 
head  ? 

Flowers  ?  nay,  the  boar  hath  rosemaries 
and  bay. 

"  '0  birds,  that  warble  to  tlie  morn- 
ing sky, 
0  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by. 
Sing  sweetly  :  twice  my  love  hath  smile<.l 
on  me.' 

"  What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark, 

mavis,  merle. 
Linnet '!  what  dream  ye  when  they  utter 

forth 
May-music   growing   with   the  giowina 

light. 
Their  sweet  sun-worship  ?   these    be  foi 

the  snare 
(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the  spit, 


458 


GAEETH   AND    LYNETTE. 


Larding  and  basting.     See   thou    liave 

not  now 
Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  auJ 

fly- 

I'here  stands  the  third  fool  of  their  alle- 
gory." 

For  there   beyond  a  bridge  of  treble 

bow, 
All  in  a  rose-red  from  the  west,  and  all 
Naked  it  seem'd,  and  glowing  in  the 

broad 
Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,    the 

knight. 
That  named  himself  the  Star  of  Evening, 

stood. 

And   Gareth,    "Wherefore   waits   the 

madman  there 
Naked  in   open   dayshine  ?  "      "Nay," 

she  cried, 
"  Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in   harden'd 

skins 
That  fit  him  like  his  own  ;  and   so   ye 

cleave 
His  annor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the 

blade. " 

Then   the  third  brother  shouted  o'er 

the  bridge, 
"  0  brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so 

low  ? 
Thy  ward  is  higher   up  :   but   have   ye 

slain 
The  damsel's  champion  ? "  and  the  liam- 

sel  cried, 

"  No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from  Ar- 
thur's heaven 

With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 

For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have 
gone  down 

Before  this  youth  ;  and  so  wilt  thou,  Sir 
Star  ; 

Art  thou  not  old  ? " 

' '  Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard, 
Old,    with    the    might  and    breath    of 

twenty  boys." 
Said   Gareth,   "  Old,  and   over- bold   in 

brag  ! 
But  that  same  strength  which  threw  the 

Morniug-Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening." 

Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 


' '  Approach  and  arm  me  ! "     With  sloT* 

steps  from  out 
An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many-stain'd 
Pavilion,  forth  a  grizzled  damsel  came. 
And  arm'd  him  in  old  arms,  and  brought 

helm 
With  but  a  drying  evergreen  for  crest, 
And  gave  a  shield  whereon  the  Star  of 

Even 
Half-tarnish'd  and  half-bright,  his  em- 
blem, shone. 
But  when  it  glitter'd  o'er  the  saddle-bow, 
They    madly    hurl'd    together    on    the 

bridge, 
And    Gareth    overthrew   him,    lighted, 

drew, 
There   met  him  drawn,  and   overthrew 

him  again, 
But  up  like  tire  he  started  :  and  as  oft 
As  Gareth   brought   him   grovelling  on 

his  knees. 
So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again  ; 
Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  gi'eat 

heart. 
Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in  vain, 
Labor'd  within   him,  for  he   seem'd  as 

one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life. 
But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and  cry, 
"Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst 

not  put  us  down  !  " 
He  half  despairs  ;  so  Gareth  seem'd  to 

strike 
Vainly,   the  damsel   clamoring   all   the 

while, 
"  Well  done,  knave-knight,  well  strick- 
en, 0  good  knight-knave  — 
0   knave,   as   noble   as   any  of  all   the 

knights  — 
Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.     I  have 

prophesied  — 
Strike,   thou   art  worthy  of  the  Table 

Round  — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  harden'd 

skin  — 
Stiike  —  strike  —  the  wind  will  nevei 

change  again." 
And  Gareth  hearingever  stronglier  smote, 
And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his  armor  off 

him. 
But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  harden'd 

skin. 
And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under, 

more 
Than  loud  Southwestems,  rolling  ridg« 

on  ridge. 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


459 


The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips  and 

springs 
Forever  ;  till  at  length  Sir  Gareth's  brand 
Clash'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the 

hilt. 
"  I  have  thee  now  "  ;  but  forth  that  other 

sprang, 
And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his  wiry 

arms 
Around  hiia,  till  he  felt,  despite  his  mail. 
Strangled,  Imt  straining  ev'n  his  utter- 
most 
Cast,  and  so  hnrl'd  him  headlong  o'er 

the  bridge 
Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and 

cried, 
"Lead,  and  I  follow." 

But  the  damsel  said, 
"  I  lead  no  longer  ;  ride  thou  at  my  side  ; 
Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen- 
knaves. 

"'0  trefoil,   sparkling  on  the  rainy 

plain, 
0  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain. 
Shine    sweetly  :    thrice    my   love    hath 

smiled  on  me.' 

"Sir, — and,  good   faith,   I   fain  had 
added — -Knight, 
But  that    I    heard   thee   call   thyself  a 

knave,  — 
Shamed  am  I  that  1  so  rebuked,  reviled, 
Missaid  thee  ;  noble  I  am  ;  and  thought 

the  King 
Scorn'd  me  and  mine  ;  and  now  thy  par- 
don, friend, 
For  thou  hast  ever  answer'd  courteously. 
And  wholly  bold  thou  art,    and   meek 

withal 
As  any  of  Arthur's  best,  but,  being  knave. 
Hast  mazed  my  wit :  I  marvel  what  thou 
art." 

"Damsel,"  he  said,  "ye  be  not  all  to 
blame, 

Sa-ving  that  ye  mistrusted  our  good  King 

Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  thee,  ask- 
ing, one 

Not  fit  to  cope  thy  quest.  Ye  said  your 
say  ; 

Mine  answer  was  my  deed.  Good  sooth  ! 
I  hold 

He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man, 
nor  meet 

To  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who  lets 


His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish  lieat 
At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 
Shamed  ?    care   not  !    thy   foul    sayings 

fought  for  me  : 
And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair,  me- 

thiuks, 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his 

great  self. 
Hath  force  to  quell  me. " 

Nigh  upon  that  houi 
When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  melan- 
choly. 
Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretching 

dreams 
Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool. 
Then  turn'd  the  noble  damsel  smiling  at 

liini. 
And  told  him  of  a  cavern  hard  at  hand, 
Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and  good 

red  wine 
Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyonors 
Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited 
him. 

Anon  they  past  a  narrow  comb  wherein 
Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures,  knights 

on  horse 
Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly  waning 

hues. 
"Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a  hermit  once 

was  here. 
Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion'd  on  the 

rock 
The  war  of  Time  against  the  soul  of  man. 
And   yon  four  fools   have  suck'd  their 

allegory 
From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken  but 

the  form. 
Know  ye  not  these  ? "  and  Gareth  lookt 

and  read  — 
In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 
Hath  left  crag-carven  o'er  the  streaming 

Gelt  — 
"Phosphorus,"  then  "Meridies"  — 

"  Hesperus"  — 
"  Nox  "  —  "Mors,"  beneath  five  figures^ 

armed  men, 
Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward  all. 
And  running  down  the  Soul,  a  Shape 

that  fled 
With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and 

loose  hair, 
For  help  and   shelter   to   the   hermit's 

cave. 
'  Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it.     Look, 
Who  comes  behind  ? " 


460 


GAEETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


For  one  —  dolay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To   Camelot,    then  by  what   thereafter 

chanced, 
The   damsel's   headlong  error  thro'  the 

wood  — 
Sir   Lancelot,   having   s\viim  the  river- 
loops — 
His   blue   shield-lions   cover'd  —  softly 

drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the 

star 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's  turning  to  him, 

cried, 
"  Stay,  felon   knight,   I   avenge  me  for 

my  friend." 
And  Garetli  crying  prick'd  against  the 

cry  ; 
But  when  they  closed  —  in  a  moment  — 

at  one  touch 
Of  that  skill'd  spear,  the  Avonder  of  the 

world  — 
"Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell. 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within  his 

hands 
He  laugh'd  ;   the  laughter  jarr'd  upon 

Lynette  : 
Harshly  she  ask'd  him,  "Shamed  and 

overthrown, 
And  tumbled    back   into    the   kitchen- 
knave, 
"Why  laugh  ye  ?  that  ye  blew  your  boast 

in  vain  '(" 
"  Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 
Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Belli- 

cent, 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford. 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown 

by  whom 
I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappiness  — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness  — 
Out,  sword  ;  we  are  thrown  !  "  and  Lan- 
celot answer'd,  "  Prince, 
0  Gareth  —  thro'  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee  not  to 

harm, 
Lancelot,   and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee 

whole, 
As  on  the  day  when   Arthur  knighted 

him." 

Then  Gareth,   "  Thou  — Lancelot  !  — 

thine  the  hand 
That  threw  me  ?     An  some   chance  to 

mar  the  boast 
Thy   brethren    of    thee    make  —  which 

could  not  chance  — 


Had  sent  thee  down  before  a  lesser  spear 
Shamed  had  1  been  and  sad  —  0  Lancelot 
—  thou  ! " 

Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant,  "Lan- 
celot, 
Why   came  ye   not,    when  call'd  ?  and 

wherefore  now 
Come  ye,  not  call'd  ?     I  gloried  in  my 

knave. 
Who  being  still  rebuked,  Avould  answer 

still 
Courteous  as  any  knight  —  but  now,  if 

knight, 
The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool'd 

and  triek'd. 
And  only  wondering   wherefore   play'd 

upon  : 
And  doubtful  whether  I  and  mine  be 

scorn'd. 
Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in  Arthur's 

hall, 
In  Arthur's  presence  ?     Knight,  knave, 

prince  and  fool, 
1  hate  thee  and  forever." 

And  Lancelot  said, 

"  Blessed  be  thou.  Sir  Gareth  !  knight 
art  thou 

To  the  King's  best  wish.  0  damsel,  be 
ye  wise 

To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  over- 
thrown ? 

Thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once,  but  many 
a  time. 

Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the 
last. 

And  overthrower  from  being  overthrown. 

With  sword  we  have  not  striven  ;  and 
thy  good  horse 

And  thou  art  weary  ;  yet  not  less  I  felt 

Thy  maidiood  thro'  that  wearied  lance 
of  thine. 

Well  hast  thou  done  ;  for  all  the  stream 
is  freed. 

And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on  his 
foes. 

And  when  reviled,  hast  answer'd  gra- 
ciously. 

And  makest  merry,  when  overthrown. 
Prince,  Knight, 

Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  oui 
Table  Eound  ! " 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette  he 
told 
The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said, 


GARETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


461 


'  Sound  sleep  be  thine  !  sound  cause  to  sleep  hast  thou." 


"Ay  well  —  ay  well  —  for  worse  than 

being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.     A  cave, 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and 

drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for  fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,    till   we  find."     And   when   they 

sought  and  found, 
Bir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his  life 
Past  into  sleep  ;  on  whom  the  maiden 

gazed. 


"Sound  sleep  be  thine  !  sound  cause  tc 

sleep  hast  thou. 
Wake  lusty  !     Seem  I  not  as  tender  to 

him 
As  any  mother  ?     Ay,  but  such  a  one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her  child, 
And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him  asleep  — 
Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the  honey- 
suckle 
In  the  hush'd  night,  as  if  the  world  were 

one 
Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentleness  I 


462 


GAEETH   AND   LYNETTE. 


O  l^ancelot,   Lancelot  "  —  and  she  clapt 

her  hands  — 
"Full  merry  am  I  to  find   my  goodly 

knave 
Is  knight  and  noble.     See  now,  sworn 

have  I, 
Else  yon  black  felon   had   not   let   me 

pass, 
To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with 

him. 
Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  wiU  fight  thee 

first ; 
Who  doubts  thee   victor?  so   will   my 

knight-knave 
Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplish- 
ment." 

Said  Lancelot,  "  Peradventure  he,  ye 
name, 

May  know  my  shield.  Let  Gareth,  an 
he  will. 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my  char- 
ger, fresh. 

Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as 
well 

As  he  that  rides  him."  "  Lancelot-like," 
she  said, 

••  Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as 
in  aU." 

And      Gareth,      wakening,      fiercely 

clutch'd  the  shield  ; 
"  Ramp,   ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on 

whom  all  spears 
Are  rotten  sticks  !  ye  seem  agape  to  roar  ! 
Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  lea\ang  of  your 

lord  !  — 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care  for 

you. 
0  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on  these 
Streams    virtue  —  fire  —  thro'    one   that 

will  not  shame 
Even   the    shadow   of    Lancelot    under 

shield. 
Hence  :  let  us  go." 

Silent  the  silent  field 
They    traversed.       Arthur's    harp    tho' 

sunnner-wan. 
In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  allured 
The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on   his 

liege. 
A  star  shot  :   "  Lo,"  said  Gareth,  "  the 

foe  falls  !  " 
An  owl  whoopt  :  "  Hark  the  victor  peal- 
ing there  !  " 
Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 


Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent 

him,  crying, 
"Yield,  yield  him  this   again:   'tis  he 

must  fight  : 
I  curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro'  yester- 
day 
Reviled    thee,    and    hath    wrought    on 

Lancelot  now 
To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield  :  wonders 

ye  have  done  ; 
Miracles  ye  cannot :  here  is  glory  enow 
In  having  flung  the  three  :    I  see  thee 

maim'd. 
Mangled  :  I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling 

the  fourth." 

"And  wherefore,  damsel  ?  tell  me  all 

ye  know. 
Ye  cannot  scare  me  ;  nor  rough  face,  or 

voice. 
Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savagery 
Appall  me  from  the  cpiest." 

"  Nay,  Prince,"  she  cried, 
"God   wot,    I    never   look'd   upon   the 

face. 
Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by  day  ; 
But  watch'd  him  have  I  like  a  phantom 

pass 
Chilling  the  night  :  nor  have  1  heard  the 

voice. 
Always  he   made   his   mouthpiece  of  a 

page 
Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported 

him 
As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of  ten. 
And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massacring 
Man,  woman,  lad   and   girl  —  yea,    the 

soft  babe  — 
Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow'd  infant 

flesh. 
Monster  I     0  prince,  I  went  for  Lance- 
lot first, 
The  quest  is  Lancelot's  :  give  him  back 

the  shield." 

Said  Gareth   laughing,    ' '  An  he  fight 
for  this, 
Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man  : 
Thus  —  and  not  else  ?  " 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
Where  one  might  meet  a  mightier  than 

himself ; 
How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance,  sword 

and  shield. 


GARETH   AND    LYNETTE. 


463 


And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force  might 

fail 
With  skill  and  fineness.     Instant  were 

his  words. 

Then   Gareth,    "  Here   be    rules.      I 

know  but  one  — 
To   dash  against  mine   enemj'   and  to 

win. 
Yet  have  I  watch'd  thee  victor  in  the 

joust, 
And   seen   thy   way."      "Heaven    help 

thee,  '  sigh'd  Lynette. 

Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud  that 

grew 
To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars,  they 

rode 
In  conv'erse  till  she  made  her  palfry  halt, 
Lifted  an   arm,   and    softly   whisper'd, 

"There." 
And   all   the   three  were   silent   seeing, 

pitch'd 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
Sunder   the   glooming  crimson   on    the 

marge. 
Black,  with  black    banner,  and   a  long 

black  horn 
Beside   it   hanging ;  which   Sir   Gareth 

graspt. 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder  him. 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all 

the  horn. 
Echo'd  the  walls  ;  a  light  twinkled  ;  anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again 

he  blew  ; 
Whereon  were  hollow  tmraplings  up  and 

down 
And  muflSed  voices  heard,  and  shadow's 

past  ; 
Till  high  above   him,  circled  with   her 

maids. 
The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood. 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to 

him 
White  hands,  and  courtesj^  ;  but  when 

the  Prince 
Three   times   had    blown  —  after  long 

hush  —  at  last  — 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up. 
Thro'  those  black  foldings,  that  which 

housed  therein. 
High  on  a  nightblack  horse,  in  night- 
black  arms, 
With  white  bre:ist-bone,  and  barren  ribs 

pf  Death, 


And  crown'd  with  fleshless  laughter  — 

some  ten  steps  — 
In  the  half-light  —  thro'  the  dim  da^vn  — 

advanced 
The   monster,    and    then    paused,    and 

spake  no  word. 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly, 
"  Fool,    for  thou    hast,    men  say,    the 

strength  of  ten. 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God 

hatli  given. 
But  must,  to  make  the   terror  of  thee 

more. 
Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and 

the  clod, 
Less   dull   than   thou,    will    hide   with 

mantling  flowers 
As  if  for  pity  ?  '    But  he  spake  no  word  ; 
Which  set  the  horror  higher  :  a  maiden 

swoon'd  ; 
The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands  and 

wept. 
As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and 

Death  ; 
Sir  Gareth's  head  prickled  beneath  his 

helm  ; 
And  ev'n  Sir   Lancelot  thro'  his  warm 

blood  felt 
Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark'd  him  were 

aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot's  charger  fiercely 

neigh 'd  — 
At  once  the  black  horse  bounded  forward 

with  him. 
Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  terror, 

saw 
That   Death   was   cast   to  ground,  and 

slowly  rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split  the 

skull. 
Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and  lay. 
Then  with  a  stronger  bufiet  he  clove  the 

helm 
As   throughly   as   the   skull  ;    and   out 

from  this 
Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming  boy 
Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying, 

"  Knight, 
Slay  me  not  :  my  three  brethren  bad  me 

do  it. 
To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house. 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would  be 

past." 


464 


TO   THE   QUEEN. 


Answer'd  Sir  G.areth.  graciously  to  one 
Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  "My  fair 

child, 
What  madness  made  thee  challenge  the 

chief  knight 
Of  Arthur's  hall  ? "     "  Fair  Sir,  they  bad 

me  do  it. 
They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the 

King's  friend, 
They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on 

the  stream. 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  could  be 

past." 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from  un- 
derground ; 


And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with 

dance 
And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over 

Death, 
As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 
And   horrors   only   prov'n  a  blooming 

boy. 
So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won  the 

quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older 
times 

Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyo- 
nors, 

But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Ly- 
uette. 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

EPILOGUE  TO   THE  IDYLS. 


0  LOYAL  to  the  '■oyal  in  thyself. 
And  loyal  to  thy  land,  as  this  to  thee  — 
Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  day, 
When,  pale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 

Prince 
Who  scarce  had   pluck'd  his  flickering 

life  again 
From  half-way  down  the  shadow  of  the 

grave, 
Past  with  thee  thro'  thy  people  and  their 

love, 
And  London  roU'd  one  tide  of  joy  thro'  all 
Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues 

of  man 


And  welcome  !  witness,  too,  the  silent 

cry, 
The  prayer  of  many  a  race  and  creed,  and 

clime  — 
Thunderless  lightnings  striking   under 

sea 
From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy  realm. 
And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately 

heard 
A  strain  to  shame  us  "keep  you  to  your- 
selves ; 
So  loyal  is  too  costly  !  fiiends —  your  love 
I  s  but  a  burthen :  loose  the  bond,  and  go." 
Is  this  the  tone  of  empire  ?  here  the  fadtb 


TO   THE   QUEEN. 


465 


That  made  us  rulers  ?  this,  indeed,  hei* 

voice 
And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hou- 

goumont 
Left  mightiest  ofall  peoples  under  heaven  ? 
What  shock  has  fool'd  her  since,  that  she 

should  speak 
So  feebly  ?  wealthier  —  wealthier  —  hour 

by  hour  ! 
The  voice  of  Britain,  or  f»  sinking  land. 
Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among  her 

seas  ? 
There  rang  her  voice,  when  the  full  city 

peal'd 
Thee  and  thy  Prince  !    The  loyal  to  their 

crown 
Are  loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who  love 
Our  ocean-empire  with   her   boundless 

homes 
For  evei'-broadening  England,  and  her 

throne 
In  our  vast  Orient,  and  one   isle,   one 

isle, 
That  knows  not  her  own  greatness  :  if  she 

knows 
And  dreads  it  we  are  fall'n.  —  But  thou, 

my  Queen, 
Not  for  itself,  but  thro'  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I  made  it  o'er  his  grave 
Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale. 
New-old,  and   shadowing  Sense  at  war 

with  Soul 
Rather  than  tliat  gray  king,  whose  name, 

a  ghost, 
Streams  like  a  cloud,  man-shaped,  from 

mountain  peak. 
And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  cromlech  still ; 

or  him 
Of  Geoffrey's  book,  or  him  of  Malleor's, 

one 


Touch'd  by  the  adulterous  finger  of  a  time 

That  hover'd  between  war  and  wanton- 
ness. 

And  crownings  and  dethronements  :  take 
withal 

Thy  poet's  blessing,  and  his  trust  that 
Heaven 

Will  blow  the  tempest  in  the  distance  back 

From  thine  and  ours  :  for  some  are  scared, 
who  mark. 

Or  wisely  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm, 

Waverings  of  every  vane  with  every  wind. 

And  wordy  trucklings  to  the  transient 
hour. 

And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of  the 
faith, 

And  Softness  breeding  scorn  of  simple 
life. 

Or  Cowardice,  the  child  of  lust  for  gold, 

Or  Labor,  witli  a  groan  and  not  a  voice, 

Or  Art,  with  poisonous  honey  stol'n  from 
France, 

And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for 
itself. 

And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 
which  knows 

To  its  own  harm  :  the  goal  of  this  great 
world 

Lies  beyond  sight :  yet  —  if  our  slowly- 
grown 

And  crown'd  Republic's  crowning  com- 
mon sense, 

That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail  — 
their  fears 

Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the 
shapes 

That  cast  them,  not  those  gloomier  which 
forego 

The  darkness  of  that  battle  in  the  West, 

Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies  away. 


466 


A  WELCOME. 


A  WELCOME  TO  THE  DUKE  AND  DUCHESS  OE 
EDINBURGH. 

March,  1874. 


The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove 
for  power  — 
"Whose  will  is  lord  thro'  all  his  world- 
domain  — 
"Who  made  the  serf  a  man,  and  burst 
his  chain  — 
Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  Imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 
And  welcome,  Russian  flower,  a  people's 
pride, 
To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  begin  to 

blow  ! 
From  love  to  love,  from  home  to  home 
you  go. 
From  mother  unto  mother,  stately  bride, 
Marie- Alexandrovna. 


The  golden  news   along  the   steppes   is 
blown. 
And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents  are 

stirred  ; 
Elburz   and   all    the   Caucasus    have 
heard  ; 
And  all  the  sultry  palms  of  India  known, 
Alexandrovna. 
The  voices  of  our  universal  sea, 

On    capes   of   Afric    as    on    cliff's   of 

Kent, 
The  Maoris  and  that   Isle  of  Conti- 
nent, 
And  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmair  thee, 
Marie- Alexandrovna  ! 


i?air  Empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty 
life  ! — 
Yet  Harold's  England  fell  to  Norman 

swords  ; 
Yet  thine  own  land  has  bow'd  to  Tar- 
tar hordes 


For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs  that 
swing, 
And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  anc 

flow  ; 
But  who  love  best  have  best  the  grace 
to  know 
That  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless 
king, 

Marie-Alexandrovna ! 


And  Love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger 
land, 
"Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly  say 

their  say  ;  — 
See,  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to-day, 
As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in 
hand, 

Alexandrovna  ! 
So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  West, 
Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious  to 

thy  poor : 
Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  narrow 
door  ; 
Here  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be  blest, 
Marie-Alexandrovna ! 


Shall    fears   and   jealous   hatreds   flame 
again  ? 
Or   at  thy   coming.   Princess,  every- 
where. 
The  blue  heaven  break,  and  some  di- 
viner air 
Breathe  thro'  the  world  and  change  the 
hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna? 
But  hearts  that  change   not,  love  that 
cannot  cease. 
And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of  soul 

in  soul  ! 
And  howsoever  this  wild  world   may 
roll. 
Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne  a  j  Between  your  peoples  truth  and  manful 
wiife,  peace, 

Alexandrovna  ' )  Alfred  —  Alexandrovna  ( 


Ha>t  thou  no  voice,  O  Peak?"     See  page  467. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  SW^INSTON.  — THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK.      467 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


m   THE   GARDEN    AT   SWAIN- 
STON. 

Nightingales  warbled  without, 
Within  was  weeping  for  thee  : 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk'd  in  the  walks  with  me, 
Shadows  of  three  dead  men,  and  thou 
wast  one  of  the  thi'ee. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods  : 
The  Master  was  I'ar  away  : 
Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 
Of  a  passion  that  lasts  but  a  day  ; 
Still  in  the  house  in  his  coffin  the  Prince 
of  courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I  known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee  : 
Two  dead  men  have  I  loved 
With  a  love  that  ever  will  be  : 
Three  dead  men  have  I  loved,  and  tliou 
art  last  of  the  tliree. 


THE   VOICE   AND   THE   PEAK. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  over  summit  and  lawn. 
The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 
Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones  of 
dawn  ! 

All  night  have  I  heard  the  voice 
Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 
But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven,* 
Above  thee  glided  the  star. 

Hast  thou  no  voice,  0  Peak, 
That  standest  high  above  all.? 


' '  I  am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 
I  roar  and  rave  for  I  fall. 

"A  thousand  voices  go 
To  North,  South,  East,  and  West ; 
They  leave  the  heights  and  are  troubled; 
And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 

"The  fields  are  fair  beside  them, 
The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom  ; 
But  they  —  they  feel  the  desire  of  the 

deep  — 
Fall,  and  follow  their  doom. 

' '  The  deep  has  power  on  the  height. 
And  the  lieight  has  power  on  tlie  deep  ; 
They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 
And  sink  again  into  sleep." 

Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 

But  when  their  cycle  is  o'er, 

The  valley,  the  voice,  the  peak,  the  star. 

Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 

The  Peak  is  high  and  flush'd 
At  his  highest  with  sunrise  fire  ; 
The  peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are  high. 
And  the  thought  of  a  man  is  higher. 

A  voice  belov.'  the  voice. 
And  a  height  beyond  the  height  I 
Our  hearing  is  not  hearing, 
And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  into  heaven  withdrawn. 
The  lone  glow  and  the  long  roar 
Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones  oi 
dawn  ' 


468 


QUEEN   MARY. 


QUEEN  MARY. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Queen  Mary. 

Philip  {King  of  Naples  and  Sicily,  afterwards  King  of  Spain). 

The  Princess  Euzabeth. 

Reginald  Pole  {Cardinal  and  Papal  Legate). 

SniO.v  Re.nard  {Spanish  Ambassador) 

Le.Sieur  de  iiOAlLhES  {French  Atnhassador). 

Thomas  Cranmer  {Archbishop  of  Canlerhuri/) 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath  (Archbishop  of  York;  Lord  Chancellor  after  Gardiner). 

Eovf-iRD  CoVRTESXY  {Earl  of  Devon) 

Lord  William  Howard  {afterwards  Lord  Howard  and  Lord  Higk^dmirM^ 

Lord  Williams  of  Thame. 

Lord  Paget. 

Lord  Petre. 

Stephen  Gardiner  {Bishop  of  Winchester  and  Lord  Chancellor). 

Kdmund  Bonner  {Bishop  of  London) 

Thomas  Thirlbt  {Bishop  of  Ely). 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt       I  ^insurrectionary  Leaders). 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford  I  ^  j  / 

Sir  Rvlph  Bagenhall. 

Sir  RoDERr  Southwell. 

Sir  Uenrt  Bi-dinofield. 

Sir  WaLiAM  Cecil. 

Sir  Thomas  White  {Lord  Mayor  of  London). 

The  Duke  of  Alva     I  („,;,^rf,„    ^n  Philip). 

The  Count  de  Feria  )  ^  *  '^' 

Peter  Martyr. 

F.4TH3R  Cole. 

Father  Bourne. 

Villa  Garcia. 

Soto. 

Captain  Brett,  Antony  Knyvett  {Adherents  of  Wyatt). 

Peters  (  Gentleman  of  Lord  Howard) 

Roger  {Sirvant  to  J^Toaillp.'i).     William  {Servant  to  Wyatt). 

Steward  of  House  iold  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Old  Nokes  and  Nokzs. 

Marchioness  of  Exeteb    Mother  of  Courtenay). 

Lady  Clare:.ce  i 

Lady  Magdalen  Dacrss  \  {Ladies  in  Waiting  to  the  Queen). 

Auce  ) 

Maid  of  Honor  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Joan,  Tib  ( Two  Country  Wives). 

Lords  and  other  Attendants,  Members  of  the  Privy  Council,  Members  of  Parliament,  two  Gentle- 
men, Aldermen,  Citizens,  Peasants  Ushers,  Messengers,  Guards,  Pages,  etc. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  — ALDGATE  RICHLY  DEC- 
ORATED. 

Crowd.     Maeshalmex. 

Marshalinan.  Stand  back,  keep  a 
clear  lane.  When  will  her  Majestj' 
pass,  sayst  thou  ?  why  now,  even  now ; 
wherefore  draw  back  j'our  heads  and 
your  horns  before  I  break  them,  and 
make  what  noise  you  will  with  your 
tongues,  so  it  be  not  treason.  Long 
live  Queen  Mary,  the  lawful  and  legiti- 
mate daughter"  of  Harry  the  Eighth. 
Shout,  knaves  ! 

Citizens.    Long  live  Queen  I\lary  ! 


First  Citizen.  That 's  a  hard  word, 
legitimate  ;  what  does  it  mean  ? 

Second  Citizen.    It  means  a  bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  Nay,  it  means  true 
born. 

First  Citizen.  Why,  did  n't  the  Par- 
liament make  her  a  bastard  ? 

Second  Citizen.  No  ;  it  was  the  Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Third  Citizen.  That  was  after,  man  , 
that  was  after. 

First  Citizen.  Then  which  is  the  bas- 
tanl  ? 

Seemid  Citizen.  Trotli,  they  be  both 
bastards  by  Act  of  Parliament  and 
Council. 


QUEEN   MA  FY. 


4G9 


Third  Citizen.  Ay,  the  Parliament 
can  make  every  true-born  man  of  us  a 
bastard.  Old  Nokes,  can't  it  make  thee 
a  bastard  {  thou  shouldst  know,  lor 
thou  art  as  white  as  three  Christmasses. 

Old  Xokcs  {drcamUij).  Who  's  a-])ass- 
ing  ?     King  Edward  or  King  Richard  / 

Third  Citizen.    No,  old  Nokes. 

Old  Nokes.    It 's  Harry  ! 

Third  Citizen.    It 's  (Jueen  Mary. 

Old  Nokes.  The  blessed  l^Iary  's  a- 
passing  !  [Falls  on  his  knees. 

Nokes.  Let  father  alone,  my  masters  I 
he  's  past  your  questioning. 

Third  Citizen.  Answer  thou  for  him, 
then  !  thou  art  no  such  cockerel  thyself, 
for  thou  was  born  i'  the  tail  end  of  old 
Harry  the  Seventh. 

Nokes.  Eh  !  that  was  afore  bastard- 
making  began.  I  was  born  true  man  at 
five  in  the  forenoon  i'  the  tail  of  old 
Harry,  and  so  they  can't  make  me  a 
bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  But  if  Parliament  can 
make  the  Queen  a  bastard,  why,  it  fol- 
lows all  the  more  that  they  can  make 
thee  one,  who  art  I'ray'd  i'  the  knees, 
and  out  at  elbow,  and  bald  o'  the  back, 
and  bursten  at  the  toes,  and  down  at 
heels. 

Nokes.  I  was  born  of  a  true  man  and 
a  ring'd  wife,  and  I  can't  argue  upon  it ; 
but  I  and  my  old  woman  'ud  burn  upon 
it,  that  would  we. 

Marshalman.  What  are  you  cackling 
of  bastardy  under  the  Queen's  own  nose  ( 
I  '11  have  you  flogg'd  and  burnt  too,  by 
the  Rood  I  will. 

First  Citizen.  He  swears  bv  the  Rood. 
Whew  ! 

Second  Citizen.    Hark  !  the  trumpets. 

[The  Procession  passes,  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  riding  side  hy  side,  and 
disappears  under  the  gate. 

Citizens.    Long    Live   Queen    Mary ! 

down  with  all  traitors  !     God  save  Her 

Grace  ;  and  death  to  Northumberland  ! 

[Exeunt. 

Manent  Two  Gentlemen. 

First  Gentleman.  By  God's  light  a 
noble  creature,  right  royal. 

Second  Gentleman.  She  looks  come- 
lier  than  ordinary  to-day  ;  but  to  my 
mind  the  Lady  Elizabeth  is  the  more 
noble  and  royal. 

First   Gentleman,    I   mean  the  Lady 


Elizabeth.  Did  you  hear  (I  have  a 
daughter  in  her  service  who  report(;d  it) 
that  she  met  the  Queen  at  Waristead 
with  five  hundred  horse,  and  the  Queen 
(tho'  some  say  they  be  much  divided) 
took  her  hand,  call'd  her  sweet  sister, 
and  kiss'd  not  her  alone,  but  all  the 
ladies  of  her  following. 

Second  Gentleman.  Ay,  that  was  in 
her  hour  of  joy,  there  will  be  ])lenty  to 
sunder  and  unsister  them  again  ;  this 
Gardiner  for  one,  who  is  to  be  made 
Lord  Chancellor,  and  will  pounce  like  a 
wilil  beast  out  of  his  cage  to  worry 
Cranmer. 

First  Gentleman.  And  furthermore, 
my  daughter  said  that  when  there  rose 
a  talk  of  the  late  rebellion,  she  spoke 
even  of  Northumberland  pitifully,  and 
of  the  good  ijady  Jane  as  a  poor  inno- 
cent child  wlio  had  but  obeyed  her  fa- 
ther ;  and  furthermore,  she  said  that  no 
one  in  her  time  should  be  burnt  for 
heresy. 

Second  Gentleman.  Well,  sir,  I  look 
for  happy  times. 

First  Gentleman.  There  is  but  one 
thing  against  them.  I  know  not  if  you 
know. 

Second  Gentleman  I  sujipose  you 
touch  upon  the  rumor  that  Charles,  the 
master  of  the  world,  has  offer'd  her  his 
son  Philip,  the  Pope  and  the  Devil.  I 
trust  it  is  but  a  rumor. 

First  Gentleman.  She  is  going  now  to 
the  Tower  to  loose  the  prisoners  there, 
and  among  them  Courtenay,  to  be  made 
Earl  of  Devon,  of  royal  blood,  of  splen- 
did feature,  whom  the  council  and  all 
her  people  wish  her  to  marry.  May  it 
be  so,  for  we  are  many  of  us  Catholics, 
but  lew  Pajjists,  and  the  Hot  Gospellers 
will  go  mad  upon  it. 

Second  Gentleman.  Was  she  not  be- 
troth'd  in  her  babyhood  to  the  Great 
Emperor  himself? 

First  Gentleman.  Ay,  but  he  's  too 
old. 

Second  Gentleman.  And  again  to  her 
cousin  Reginald  Pole,  now  Cardinal,  but 
I  hear  that  he  too  is  full  of  aches  and 
broken  before  his  day. 

First  Gentleman.  0,  the  Pope  could 
dispense  with  his  Cardinalate,  and  his 
achage,  and  his  breakage,  if  that  were 
all  :  but  will  you  not  follow  the  proces- 
sion? 


470 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Second  Gentleman.  No  ;  I  have  seen 
enough  for  this  day. 

First  Gentleman.  Well,  I  shall  fol- 
low ;  if  I  can  get  near  enough  I  shall 
judge  with  my  own  eyes  whether  Her 
Grace  incline  to  this  splendid  scion  of 
Plantageuet.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  ROOM  IN  LAMBETH 
PALACE. 

Cranmer.    To     Strasburg,     Antwerp, 

Frankfort,  Zurich,  AVornis, 
Geneva,  Basle  —  our  Bishops  from  their 

sees 
Or  fled,    they  say,  or  flying  —  Poinet, 

Barlow, 
Bale,    Scory,     Coverdale ;    besides    the 

Deans, 
Of  Christchurch,  Durham,  Exeter,  and 

Wells  — 
Ailmer  and  BuUingham,  and  hundreds 

more  ; 
So  they  report :  I  shall  be  left  alone. 
No :  Hooper,  Ridley,  Latimer  will  not 

fly- 

Enter  Peter  Martyr. 
Peter  Martyr.    Fly,     Cranmer !     were 
there  nothing  else,  your  name 

Stands  first  of  those  who  sign'd  the  Let- 
ters Patent 

That  gave  her  royal  crown  to  Lady  Jane. 
Cranmer.    Stand  first  it  may,  but  it 
was  written  last : 

Those  that  are  now  her  Privy  Council, 
sign'd 

Before  me  :  nay,  the  Judges  had  pro- 
nounced 

That  our  young  Edward  might  bequeath 
the  crown 

Of  England,  putting  by  his  father's  will. 

Yet  1  stood  out,  till  Edward  sent  for  me. 

The  wan  boy-king,  with  his  fast-fading 
eyes 

Fixt  hard  on  mine,  his  frail  transparent 
hand, 

Damp  with  the  sweat  of  death,  and  grip- 
ing mine, 

Whisper'd  me,  if   I  loved  him,  not  to 
yield 

His  Church  of  England  to  the    Papal 
wolf 

And  Mary ;  then  I  could  no  more  —  I 
sign'd. 

Nay,  for  bare  shame  of  inconsistency, 

She  cannot  pass  her  traitor  council  by, 

To  make  me  headless. 


Peter  Martyr.    That    might     be    for' 

given. 
I  tell  you,  fly,  my  Lord.     You  do  not 

own 
The  bodily  presence  in  the  Eucharist, 
Their  wafer  and  perpetual  sacrifice  : 
Your  creed  will  be  your  death. 

Cranmer.  Step  after  step. 

Thro'  many  voices  crying  light  and  left. 
Have  I   climb'd  back  into   the   prima: 

church, 
And  stand  within  the  porch,  and  Christ 

with  me  : 
My  flight  were  such  a  scandal  to  the 

faith. 
The  downfall  of  so  many  simple  souls, 
I  dare  not  leave  my  post. 

Peter  Martyr.  But  you  divorced 

Queen  Catharine  and  her  father  ;  hence, 

her  hate 
Will  burn  till  you  are  burn'd. 

Cranmer.  I  cannot  help  it. 

The  Canonists  and  Schoolmen  were  with 

me. 
' '  Thou    shalt    not   wed    thy   brother's 

wife."  —  'T  is  \VTitten, 
"  They  shall  be  childless."     True,  Mary 

was  born. 
But  France  would  not  accept  her  for  a 

bride 
As   being  born  from  incest ;    and  this 

wrought 
Upon  the  king  ;  and  child  by  child,  you 

know. 
Were  momentary  sparkles  out  as  quick 
Almost  as  kindled  ;  and  he  brought  his 

doubts 
And  fears  to  me.     Peter,  I  '11  swear  for 

him 
He  did  believe  the  bond  incestuous. 
But  wherefore  am   I  trenching  on  the 

time 
That  should   already   have    seen    your 

steps  a  mile 
From  me  and  Lambeth  ?     God  be  with 

you  !  ■  Go. 
PeterMartyr.    Ah,  but    how    fierce  a 

letter  you  wrote  against 
Their  superstition  when  tliey  slander'd 

you 
For  setting  \ip  a  mass  at  Canterbury 
To  please  the  Queen. 

Cranmer.       It  was  a  wheedling  monk 
Set  up  the  mass. 

Peter  Martyr.    I    know   it,    my  good 

Lord. 
But  you  so  bubbled  over  with  hot  ternxs 


QUEEN   MARY. 


471 


Of  Satan,  liars,  blasphemy.  Antichrist, 
She  never  will  I'orgive  you.     Fly,  my 
Lord,  tiy  ! 
Cranmer.    I  wrote  it,  and  God  grant 

me  power  to  burn  ! 
Peter  Martyr.    They  have  given  me  a 
safe  conduct  :  for  all  that 
I  dare  not  stay.     I   fear,   I  fear,  I  see 

you, 
Dear  friend,  for  the  last  time  ;  farewell, 
and  fly. 
Cranmer.    Fly  and  farewell,  and  let 
me  die  the  death. 

\_Exit  Peter  Martyr. 
Enter  Old  Servant. 
Old    Servant.    0,    kind    and    gentle 
master,  the  Queen's  Ofticurs 
Are  here  in   force  to  take  you  to  the 
Tower. 
Cranmer.    Ay,    gentle    friend,    admit 
them.     1  will  go. 
I  thank  my  God  it  is  too  late  to  fly. 

[Excmit. 

SCENE  III. —ST.   PAUL'S  CROSS. 

Father  Bourne  in  the  pulpit.  A  crotcd. 
Marchioness  of  Exeteu,  Cocrtenay. 
The  SiEUR  DE  NoAiLLES  and  his  man 
Roger  in  front  of  the  stage.    Hubbub. 

Noaillcs.    Hast   thou    let    fall    those 
papers  in  the  palace  ? 

Roger.    Ay,  sir. 

Noaillcs.  "  There  will  be  no  peace  for 
Mary  till  Elizabeth  lose  her  head." 

Roger.    Ay,  sir. 

Noailles.  And  the  other.  "  Long 
live  Elizabeth  the  Queen." 

Roger.  Ay,  sir ;  she  needs  must  tread 
upon  them. 

Xonilles.    Well. 
These  beastly  swine  make  such  a  grunt- 
ing here, 
I    cannot  catch  what  father  Bourne   is 
saying. 

Roger.  Quiet  a  moment,  my  masters  ; 
hear  what  the  shaveling  has  to  say  for 
himself. 

Crowd.    Hush  —  hear. 

Bourne.  — and  so  this  unhappy  land, 
long  divided  in  it.self,  and  sever'd  from 
the  faith,  will  return  into  the  one  true 
fold,  seeing  that  our  gracious  Virgin 
Queen  hath  — 

Crowd.    No  pope  !  no  pope  ! 

Roger  (to  those  about  him,  mimicking 
Bourne).    — hath  sent  for  the  holy  legate 


of  the  holy  father  the  Pope,  Cardinal 
Pole,  to  give  us  all  that  holy  absolution 
which  — 

First  Citizen.    Old  Bourne  to  the  life ! 

Second  Citizen.  Holy  absolution  !  holy 
Inquisition  ! 

Third  Citizen.    Down  with  the  Papist. 
[^Ilubbub. 

Bourne.  — and  now  that  your  good 
bishop,  Bonner,  who  hath  lain  so  long 
under  bonds  for  tln'  faith  —      [Hubbub. 

Noailles.    Friend  Roger,  steal  thou  in 
among  the  crowd. 
And  get  the  swine  to  shout  Elizabeth. 
Yon  gray  old  Gospeller,  sour  as  mid- 
winter. 
Begin  with  him. 

Roger  (goes).  By  the  mass,  old  friend, 
we  '11  have  no  pope  here  while  the  Lady 
Elizabeth  lives. 

Gospeller.  Art  thou  of  the  true  faith, 
fellow,  that  swearest  by  the  mass  ? 

Roger.  Ay,  that  am  I,  new  converted, 
but  the  old  leaven  sticks  to  my  tongue 
yet. 

First  Citizen.  He  says  right ;  by  the 
mass  we  'II  have  no  mass  here. 

Voices  of  the  Croivd.  Peace !  hear 
him  ;  let  his  own  words  damn  the  Pa- 
pist. 

From  thine  own  mouth  I  judge  thee 
—  tear  him  down. 

Bourne.  —  and  since  our  Gracious 
Queen,  let  me  call  her  our  second  Virgin 
Mary,  hath  begun  to  re-edify  the  true 
temple  — 

First  Citizen.  Virgin  Mary  !  we  '11 
have  no  virgins  here  —  we  '11  have  the 
Lady  Elizabeth ! 

[Stvords  are  dravm,  a  knife  is  hurled, 
and  sticks  in  the  pulpit.  The  mob 
throng  to  the  pulpit  stairs. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter.    Son  Courte- 

nay,  wilt  thou  see  the  holy  father 

Murder'd  before  thy  face  ?  up,  son,  and 

save  him  ! 
They  love  thee,  and  thou  canst  not  come 
to  harm. 
Courtenay    (in    the   pulpit).    Shame, 
shame,  my  masters !  are  you  Eng- 
li.sh-born, 
And  set  yourself  by  hundreds  against 
one  ? 
Crowd.    A  Courtenay  !  a  Courtenay  ! 

[A  train  of  Spanish  servants  crosses 
at  the  back  of  the  stage. 


472 


QUEEN    MARY. 


Noailles.    These  birds  of  passage  come 
before  their  time  : 
Stave  off  tlie  crowd  upon  the  Spaniard 
there. 
Eoger.    My  masters,   yonder 's   fatter 
game  for  you 
Than   this  old  gaping  gurgoyle  :    look 

you  there  — 
The  Prince  of  Spain  coming  to  wed  our 

Queen  ! 
After  him,  boys  !  and  pelt  him  from  the 
city. 
[They  seize  stones  and  follow  the 
Spaniards.  Exeunt  on  the  other 
side  Marchioness  of  Exeter  and 
Attendants. 

Noailles  {to  Roger).    Stand  from  me. 
If  Elizabeth  lose  her  head  — 
That  makes  for  France. 
And  if  her  people,  anger'd  thereupon, 
Arise    against    her    and   dethrone  the 

Queen  — 
That  makes  for  France. 
And  if  I  breed  confusion  anyway  — 
That  makes  for  France. 

Good-day,  my  Lord  of  Devon  ; 
A  bold  heart  yours  to  beard  that  raging 
mob ! 
Courtcnay.    My  mother  said.  Go  up ; 
and  up  I  went. 
I  knew  they  would  not  do  me  any  wrong, 
For  I   am  mighty  popular  with  them, 
Noailles. 
Noailles.    You  look'd  a  king. 
Courtcnay.    Why  not  ?   I  am   king's 

blood. 
Noailles.    And  in  the  whirl  of  change 

may  come  to  be  one. 
Courtcnay.    Ah  ! 
Noailles.    But    does    your    gracious 

Queen  entreat  you  king-like  ? 
Courtcnay.    'Fore   God,   I  think  she 

entreats  me  like  a  child. 
Noailles.    You  've  but  a  dull  life  in 
this  maiden  court, 
I  fear,  my  Lord. 
Courtcnay.    A  life  of  nods  and  yawns. 
Noailles.    So   you   would   honor    my 
poor  house  to-night. 
We  might  enliven  you.     Divers  honest 

fellows, 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk  lately  freed  from 

prison. 
Sir  Peter  Carew  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt, 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  and  some  more  — 
we  play. 
Oourtenay.    At  what  ?  ( 


Noailles.  The  Game  of  Chess. 

Courtcnay.  The  Game  of  Chess  1 

I  can  play  well,  and  I  shall  beat  you 
there. 
Noailles.    Ay,     but    we    play    with 
Henry,   King  of  France, 
And  certain  of  his  court. 
His  Highness  makes  his  moves  across. 

the  channel, 
We  answer  him  with  ours,  and  there 

are  messengers 
That  go  between  us. 

Courtcnay.    Why,  such  a  game,  sir, 

were  whole  yeai's  a  playing. 
Noailles.    Nay ;  not  so  long  1  trust. 
That  all  depends 
Upon   the   skill  and   swiftness  of  the 
players. 
Courtcnay.    The  King  is  skilful  at  it? 
Noailles.  Very,  my  Lord. 

Courtcnay.    And  the  stakes  high? 
Noccilles.    But  not  beyond  your  means. 
Courtcnay.    Well,    1  'm   the   first    of 

players.     I  shall  win. 
Noailles.    With  our  advice  and  in  our 
company. 
And  so  you  well  attend  to  the  king's 

moves, 
I  think  you  may. 

Courtcnay.         When  do  you  meet  ? 

Noailles.  To-night. 

Courtcnay  {aside).    I  will  be   there  ; 

the  fellow  's  at  his  tricks  — 

Deep  —  I  shall  fathom  him.     {Aloud.) 

Good-morning,  Noailles. 

[Exit  COURTENAY. 

Noailles.    Good-day,     my    Lord. 
Strange  game  of  chess  !  a  King 

That  with  her  own  pawns  plays  against 
a  Queen, 

Whose  play  is  all  to  find  herself  a  King. 

Ay  ;  but  this  fine  blue-blooded  Courtc- 
nay seems 

Too  princely  for  a  pawn.     Call  him  a 
Knight, 

That,  with  an  ass's  not  an  horse's  head, 

Skips  every  way,  from  levity  or  from 
fear. 

Well,   we  shall  use  him  somehow,   so 
that  Gardiner 

And  Simon  Renard  spy  not  out  our  game 

Too  early.     Roger,  thinkest  thou  that 
any  one 

Suspected  thee  to  be  my  man  ? 
lioger.  Not  one,  sir. 

Noailles.    No  !  the  disguise  was  per- 
fect.    Let 's  away  t         [Exeunt, 


QUEEN    MARY. 


473 


SCENE  IV. —LONDON.     A  ROOM  IN 
THE   PALACE. 

Elizabeth.     Enter  Courtexay. 

Courtcnaij.    So  yet  am  I, 
Unless  my  friends  and  mirrors  lie  to  nie, 
A    goodlier-looking    fellow    than    this 

Philip. 
Pah! 
The  Queen  is  ill  advised  :  shall  I  turn 

traitor  ? 
They  've  almost  talk'd  me  into  :  yet  the 

word 
Affrights  me  somewhat ;  to  be  such  a  one 
As  Harry  Bolingbroke  hath  a  lure  in  it. 
Good   now,   my  Lady  Queen,   tho'   by 

your  age, 
And  by  your  looks  you  are  not  worth 

the  having, 
Yet  by  your  crown  you  are. 

[Seeing  Elizabeth. 
The  Princess  there  ? 
If  I  tried  her  and  la  —  she  's  amorous. 
Have  we  not  heard  of  her  in  Edward's 

time. 
Her  freaks  and   frolics  with   the  late 

Lord  Admiral  ? 
1  do  believe  she  'd  yield.     I  should  be 

still 
A  party  in  the  state  ;  and  then,  who 
knows  — 
Elizabeth.    What  are  you  musing  on, 

my  Lord  of  Devon  ? 
Courtcnaij.    Has  not  the  Queen  — 
Elizabeth.  Done  what.  Sir  ? 

Courtenay.  — Made  you  follow 

The  Lad}^  Suffolk  and  the  Lady  Lennox. 
You, 
The  heir  presumptive. 

Elizabeth.    Why   do    yoxi    ask  ?    you 

know  it. 
Courtenay.    You  needs  must  bear  it 

hardly. 
Elizabeth.       No,  indeed  ! 
I  am  utterly  submissive  to  the  Queen. 
Courtenay.    Well,  I  was  musing  upon 
that  ;  the  Queen 
Is  both  my  foe  and  yours  :  we  should 
be  friends. 
Elizabeth.    My  Lord,   the   hatred   of 
another  to  us 
Is  no  true  bond  of  friendship. 

Courtenay.  Might  it  not 

Be  the  rough  preface  of  some  closer  bond? 
Elizabetli.    j\Iy  Lord,   you   late  were 
loosed  from  out  the  Tower, 
Where,  like  a  hnttorfly  i,^  g  chrysalis. 


You  spent  your  life  ;  that  broken,  out 

you  flutter 
Thro'  the  new  world,   go  zigzag,  now 

would  settle 
Upon   this   flower,   now  that ;  but  all 

things  here 
At  court  are  known  ;  you  have  solicited 
The  Queen,  and  been  rejected. 

Courtenay.  Flower,  she  i 

Half  faded  !  but  you,  cousin,  are  fresh 

and  sweet 
As  the  first  flower  no  bee  has  ever  tried. 
Elizabeth.    Are  you  the  bee  to  try  me? 
why,  but  now 
I  called  you  butterfly. 

Courtenay.  You  did  me  wrong, 

I  love  not  to  be  called  a  butterfly  ? 
Why  do  you  call  me  butterfly  ? 
Elizabeth.    Why  do   you   go   so  gay 

then  ? 
Courtenay.    A'elvet  and  gold. 
This  dress  was  made  me  as  the  Earl  of 

Devon 
To  take  my  seat  in  ;  looks  it  not  right 
royal  ? 
Elizabeth.    So  royal  that  the  Queen 

forbade  you  wearing  it. 
Courtenay.    I  wear  it  then  to  spite 

her. 
Elizabeth.    My  Lord,  my  Lord  ; 
I   see  you   in   the   Tower  again.     Her 

JMajesty 
Hears  you  afl'ect  the  Prince  —  prelates 
kneel  to  you.  — 
Courtenay.    I  am  the  noblest  blood 
in  Europe,  Madam, 
A  Courtenay  of  Devon,  and  her  cousin. 
Elizabeth.    She  hears  you  make  your 
boast  that  after  all 
She  means  to  wed  you.     Folly,  my  good 
Lord. 
Courtenay.    How  folly  ?  a  great  party 
in  the  state 
Wills  me  to  wed  her  ? 

Elizabeth.  Failing  her,  my  Lord, 

Doth  not  as  great  a  jiarty  in  the  state 
Will  you  to  wed  me  ? 

Courtenay.  Even  so,  fair  lady. 

Elizabeth.    You  know  to  flatter  ladies. 
Courtenay.  Nay,  I  meant 

True  matters  of  the  heart. 

Elizabeth.  My  heart,  my  Lord, 

Is  no  gi-eat  party  in  the  state  as  yet. 
Courtenay.    Great,  said  yon  ?  nay,  you 
shall  be  great.     I  love  you, 
Lay  my  life  in  your  hands.     Qah  you  be 
close  ? 


474 


QUEEN   MAKY. 


Elizabeth.   Can  you,  my  Lord? 
Courtenay.    Close  as  a  miser's  casket. 
Listen  : 
The  King  of  France,  Noailles  the  Am- 

hassador 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Sir  Peter  Carew, 
Sir    Thomas    Wyatt,    I    myself,   some 

others. 
Have  sworn  this  Spanish  mamage  shall 

not  be. 
If  Mary  will  not  liear  us  —  well  —  con- 
jecture — 
Were  I  in  Devon  with  my  wedded  bride. 
The  people  there  so  worship  me  —  Your 

ear  ; 
You  shall  be  Queen. 
Elizabeth.    You   speak  too  low,    my 
Lord  ; 
I  cannot  hear  you. 

Courtenay.  I  '11  repeat  it. 

Elizabeth.  No  ! 

Stand  farther  off,  or  you  may  lose  your 
head. 
Courtenay.    I  have  a  head  to  lose  for 

your  sweet  sake. 
Elizabeth.    Have  you,  my  Lord  ?   Best 
keep  it  for  your  own. 
Nay,  pout  not,  cousin. 
Not  many  friends  are  mine,  except  indeed 
Among  the  many.     I  believe  you  mine  ; 
And  so  you  may  continue  mine,  fare- 
well, 
And  that  at  once. 

Enter  Mart,  behind. 
Mary.   \  /hispering — leagued  together 
To  bar  me  from  my  Philip. 

Courtenay.  Pray  —  consider  — 

Elizabeth   {seeing  the  Queen).    AYell, 

that 's  a  noble  horse  of  yours,  my 

Lord. 

I  trust  that  he  will  carry  you  well  to-day. 

And  heal  your  headache. 

Courtenay.   You  are  wild ;  what  head- 
ache ? 
Heartache,  perchance  ;  not  headache. 
Elizabeth  (aside  to  Courtenay).    Are 
you  blind  ? 
[Courtenay  sees  the  Queen  and  exit. 
Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Lord  William  Howard. 

Howard.  Was  that  my  Lord  of  Dev- 
on ?  do  not  you 

Be  seen  in  corners  with  my  Lord  of 
Devon. 

He  hath  fallen  out  of  favor  with  the 
Queen. 


She  fears  the  Lords  may  side  with  you 

and  him 
Against   her  marriage  ;  therefore  is  he 

dangerous. 
And  if  this  Prince  of  fluff  and  feather 

come 
To  woo  you,  niece,  he  is  dangerous  every 

way. 
Elizabeth.    Not  very  dangerous   that 

way,  my  good  uncle. 
Hoivard.    But  your  own  state  is  full 

of  danger  here. 
The  disaffected,  heretics,  reformers. 
Look  to  you  as  the  one  to  crown  their 

ends. 
Mix  not  yourself  with  any  plot  I  pray 

you  ; 
Nay,  if  by  chance  you  hear  of  any  such, 
Speak  not  thereof —  no,  not  to  your  best 

friend, 
Lest  you  should  be  confounded  with  it. 

'  Still  — 
Perinde  ac  cadaver  —  as  the  priest  says, 
You  know  your  Latin  —  quiet  as  a  dead 

body. 
What  was  my  Lord  of  Devon  telling 

you? 
Elizabeth.    Whether  he  told  me  any- 
thing or  not, 
I   follow  your  good   counsel,    gi-acious 

uncle. 
Quiet  as  a  dead  body. 

Hoivard.  You  do  right  well. 

I   do   not   care   to   know  ;    but   this  I 

charge  you. 
Tell    Courtenay    nothing.     The    Lord 

Chancellor 
(I  count  it  as  a  kind  of  virtue  in  him. 
He  hath  not  many),  as  a  mastiff  dog 
May  love  a  puppy  cur  for  no  more  reason 
Than  that  the  twain  have  been  tied  up 

together. 
Thus  Gardiner  —  for  the  two  were  fel- 
low-prisoners 
So  many  years  in  yon  accursed  Tower  — 
Hath  taken  to  this  Courtenay.    Look  to 

it,  niece, 
He  hath  no  fence  when  Gardiner  ques- 
tions him  ; 
All  oozes  out  ;  yet  him  —  because  they 

know  him 
The  last   White  Rose,   the  last  Plan- 

tagenet 
(Nay,  there  is  Cardinal  Pole,  too),  the 

people 
Claim  as  their  natural  leader — ay,  some 

say, 


QUEEN   MARY. 


475 


That  you  shall  marry  him,  make  him 
King  belike. 
Elizabeth.    Do    they     say    so,    good 

uncle  ? 
Howard.         Ay,  good  niece  ! 
You  should  be  pliiin  and  open  with  me, 

niece. 
You  should  not  play  upon  me. 
Elizabeth.  No,  good  uncle. 

Enter  Gardiner. 
Gardiner.    Tlie  Queen  would  see  your 

Grace  upon  the  moment. 
Elizabeth.    A\'hy,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 
Gardiner.    I  think  she  means  to  coun- 
sel your  withdrawing 
To  Ashridge,    or  some   other   country 
liouse. 
Elizabeth.    Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 
Gardiner.    I  do  but  bring  the  message, 
know  no  more. 
Your  Graei^  will  hear  her  reasons  from 
herself. 
Elizabeth.    'T  is  mine  own  wish  ful- 
iill'd  before  the  word 
Was  spoken,  for  in  truth  1  had  meant 

to  crave 
Permi.ssion  of  her  Highness  to  retire 
To   Ashriilge,    and   pursue   my   studies 
there. 
Gardiner.    Madam,  to  have  tlie  wish 
before  the  word 
Is  man's  good  Fairy  —  and  the  Queen  is 

yours. 
I  left  her  with  rich  jewels  in  her  haiul. 
Whereof  't  is  like  enough  she  means  to 

make 
A  farewell  present  to  your  Grace. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord, 

I  have  the  jewel  of  a  lo}'al  heart. 

Gardiner.    I    doubt  it   not.  Madam, 
most  loyal.     [^Boics  low  and  exit. 
Hoioard.  See, 

This  comes  of  parleying  with  my  Lord 

of  Devon. 
Well,  well,  you  must  obey  ;  and  I  my- 
self 
Believe  it  will  be  better  for  j'our  welfare. 
Your  time  will  come. 

Elizabeth.    I  think  my  time  will  come. 
Uncle, 

I  am  of  sovereign  nature,  that  I  know, 
Not   to    be    (piell'd  ;    and    I    have   felt 

within  me 
Stirrings  of  some  great  doom  when  God's 

just  hour 
Peals  —  but  this  fierce  old  Gardiner  — 
his  big  baldne«<^. 


That  irritable  forelock  which  he  rubs. 
His   buzzard  beak  and  decp-incavern'd 

eyes 
Half  fright  me. 

Howard.    You  've  a  bold  heart  ;  keep 

it  so. 
He  cannot  touch  you  save  that  you  turn 

traitor  ; 
And  so  take  heed  I  pray  you  —  you  are 

one 
Who  love  that  men  should  smile  upon 

you,  niece. 
They  'd  smile  you  into  treason  —  some 

of  them. 
Elizabeth.    I  spy  the  rock  beneath  the 

smiling  sea. 
But  if  this  Philip,  the  proud  Catholic 

prince, 
And  this  bald  priest,  and  she  that  hates 

me,  seek 
In  that  lone  house,  to  practise  on  my 

life, 
By  poison,  fire,  shot,  stiib  — 

Howard.  They  will  not,  niece. 

Mine  is  the  fleet  and  all  the  power  at 

sea  — ■ 
Or  will  be  in  a  moment.     If  they  dared 
To  liarm  you,  I  would  blow  this  Philip 

and  all 
Your  trouble  to  the   dogstar  and   the 

devil. 
Elizabeth.     To   the    Pleiads,    uncle ; 

they  have  lost  a  sister. 
Howard.    But   wliy   say   that  ?  what 

have  you  done  to  lose  her  ? 
Come,  come,  I  will  go  with  you  to  the 

Queen.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  A   ROOM    IN   THE 
PALACE. 

Mart  tuith  Philip's  miniature.    Alice. 

Mary  {kissing  the  miniature).  Most 
goodly.  Kinglike,  and  an  emper- 
or's son,  — 

A  king  to  be,  —  is  he  not  noble,  girl  ? 
Alice.    Goodly   enough,  your   Grace, 
and  yet,  methinks, 

I  have  seen  goodlier. 

Mary.  Ay  ;  some  waxen  doll 

Thy  baby  eyes  have  rested  on,  belike  ; 

All  red  and  white,  the  fashion  of  our 
land. 

But  my  good  mother  came  (God  rest  her 
soul) 

Of  Spain,  and  I  am  Spanish  in  myself. 

And  in  my  likings. 


476 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Alice.  By  your  Grace's  leave 

Your  royal  mother  came  of  Spain,  but 

took 
To  the  English   red  and  whilo.     Your 

royal  father 
(For  so  they  say)  was  all  pure  lily  and 

rose 
In  his  youth,  and  like  a  lady. 

Mary.  0,  just  God  ! 

Sweet  mother,  you  had  time  and  cause 

enough 
To  sicken  of  liis  lilies  and  his  roses. 
Cast  off,    betray'd,  defamed,  divorced, 

forlorn  ! 
And  then  the  king  —  that  traitor  past 

forgiveness, 
The  false  archbishop  fawning  on  him, 

married 
The  mother  of  Elizabeth  —a  heretic 
Ev'n  as  she  is  ;  but  God  hatli  sent  me 

here 
To  take  such  order  with  all  heretics 
That  it  shall  be,  before  I  die,  as  tho' 
My  father  and  my  brother  had  not  lived. 
What   wast  thou   saying  of  this  Lady 

Jane, 
Now  in  the  Tower  ? 

Alice.    Why,  Madam,  she  was  passing 
Some  chapel  down  in  Essex,  and  with 

her 
Lady    Anne    Wharton,    and   the    Lady 

Anne 
Bow'd   to   the   Pyx  ;    but    Lady    Jane 

stood  up 
Stiff  as  the  very  backbone  of  heresy. 
And  wherefore  bow  ye  not,  says  Lady 

Anne, 
To  him  within  there  who  made  Heaven 

and  Earth  ? 
I  cannot  and  I  dare  not,  tell  your  Grace 
What  Lady  Jane  replied. 

3Iary.  But  I  will  have  it. 

Alice.    She  said  —  pray   pardon   me, 

and  pity  her  — 
She  hath  hearken'd  evil  counsel  —  ah  ! 

she  said. 
The  baker  made  him. 

Mary.         Monstrous  !  blasphemous  I 
She  ought  to  burn.     Hence,  thou  {Exit 

Ar.iPE).     No — -  being  traitor 
Her  head  will  fall  :  shall  it  ?  she  is  but 

a  child. 
We  do  not  kill  the  child  for  doing  that 
His  father  whipt  him  into   doing  —  a 

head 
So  full  of  grace  and  beauty  \  would  that 

mine 


Were  half  as  gracious  !     O,   my  lor3 

to  be. 
My  love,  for  thy  sake  only. 
1  am  eleven  years  older  than  he  is. 
But  will  he  care  for  that  ? 
No,  by  the  lioly  Virgin,  being  noble, 
But  love  me   only :    then  the   bastard 

sprout. 
My  sister,  is  far  fairer  than  myself. 
Will  he  be  drawn  to  her? 
No,  being  of  the  true  faith  with  myself. 
Paget   is   for  him  —  for  to    wed    with 

Spain 
Would  treble    England  —  Gardiner    i? 

against  him  ; 
The  Council,  people,  Parliament  against 

him  ; 
But  I  will  have  him  !     My  hard  father 

hated  me  ; 
My  brother  rather  hated  me  than  loved  ; 
My  sister  cowers  and  hates  me.     Holy 

Virgin, 
Plead  with  thy  blessed  Son  ;  grant  me 

my  prayer  ; 
Give  me  my  Philip  ;  and  we  two  will  lead 
The  living  waters  of  the  Faith  again 
Back  thro'  their  widow'd  channel  here, 

and  watch 
The  parch'd  banks  rolling  incense,  as  of 

old. 
To  heaven,  and  kindled  \vith  the  palms 

of  Christ  ! 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits,  sir  ? 

Usher.    Madam,  the  Lord  Chancellor. 

Mary.    Bid  him  come  in.    (Enter  Gar- 

DINER.)   Good  morning,  my  good 

Lord.  [Exit  Ushek 

Gardiner.    That    every    morning  of 

your  Majesty 

May  be  most  good,  is  every  morning's 

prayer 
Of  your   most   loyal   subject,    Stephen 
Gardiner. 
Mary.    Come  you  to  tell  me  this,  my 

Lord  ? 
Gardiner.      And  more. 
Your  people  have  begun  to  learn  your 

worth. 
Your  pious  wish  to  pay  King  Edward's 

debts. 
Your  lavish  household  curb'd,  and  the 

remission 
Of  lialf  that  subsidy  levied  on  the  people, 
.Make  all  tongues  praise  and  all  hearts 
beat  for  you. 


QUEEN    MARY. 


477 


I  'd  have  you  yet  more  loved  :  the  realm 
is  poor, 

The  exchequer  at  neap-ebb  :  we  might 
withdraw 

Part  of  our  garrison  at  Calais. 

Mary.  Calais  ! 

Our  one  point  on  the  main,  the  gate  of 
France  ! 

I  am  Queen  of  England ;  take  mine  eyes, 
mine  heart. 

But  do  not  lose  me  Calais. 

Gardiner.  Do  not  fear  it. 

Of  that  hereafter.     I  say  your  Grace  is 
loved. 

That  I  may  keep  you  thus,  who  am  your 
friend 

And  ever  faithful  counsellor,  might  I 
speak  ? 
Mary.    I  can  forespeak  your  speaking. 
Would  I  marry 

Prince  Pliilip,  if  all  England  hate  him  ? 
That  is 

Your  question,  and  I  front  it  with  an- 
other : 

Is  it  England,  or  a  party  ?    Now,  your 
answer. 
Gardiner.    My  answer  is,  I  wear  be- 
neath my  dress 

A  shirt  of  mail  :  my  house  hath  been 
assaulted, 

And  when  I  walk  abroad,  the  populace, 

With  fingers  pointed  like  so  many  dag- 
gers. 

Stab  me  in   fancv,  hissing  Spain  and 
Philip  ; 

And  when  1  sleep,  a  hundied  men-at- 
arms 

Guard   my   poor   dreams   for   England. 
Men  would  murder  me, 

Because  they  think  me  favorer  of  this 
marriage. 
Mary.    And  tliat  were  hard  upon  you, 

my  Lord  Chancellor. 
Gardiner.     But   our    young   Earl   of 

Devon  — - 
Mary.  Earl  of  Devon  ? 

I  freed  him  from  the  Tower,  placed  him 
at  Court  ; 

1  made  him  Earl  of  Devon,  and  —  the 
fool  — 

He  wrecks   his   healtli   and  wealth   on 
courtesans, 

And  rolls  himself  in  carrion  like  a  dog. 
Gardiner.    More  like  a  school-boy  that 
hath  broken  bounds. 

Sickening  himself  with  sweets. 

Mary.  1  will  not  hear  of  him. 


Good,  then,  they  will  revolt  :  but  I  am 

Tudor, 
And  shall  control  them. 

Gardiner.       I  will  lielp  you,  Madam, 
Even  to  the  utmost.     All  the  church  is 

grateful. 
You  have  ousted  the  mock  priest,  repul- 

pited 
The  .shepherd  of  St.    Peter,  raised  the 

rood  again, 
And  brought  us  back  the  mass.     I  am 

all  thanks 
To  God  and  to  your  Grace  :  yet  I  know 

well. 
Your  people,  and  I  go  with  them  so  far, 
Will  brook  nor  Pope  nor  Spaniard  here 

to  play 
The    tyrant,    or    in    commonwealth  or 
church. 
Mary  {showing  the  jncture).    Is  this  the 
face  of  one  who  plays  the  tyrant  ? 
Peruse  it ;   is  it   not   goodly,   a)%  and 
gentle  ? 
Gardiner.    Madam,  methinks  a  cold 
face  and  a  liaughty. 
And    when    your    Highness    talks    of 

Courtenay  — 
Ay,  true  —  a  goodly  one.     I  would  bis 

life 
Were  half  as  goodly  (aside). 

Mary.  What  is  that  you  mutter? 

Gardiner.    Oh,  IMadani,  take  it  blunt- 
ly; marry  Philip, 
And  be  stepmother  of  a  score  of  sons ! 
The  prince  is  known  in  Spain,  in  Flan- 
ders, ha ! 
For  Philip  — 

Mary.    You  offend  us;  you  may  leave 
us. 
You  see  thro'  warping  glasses. 

Gardiner.  If  your  Majesty  — 

Mary.    I  have  sworn  upon  the  body 
and  blood  of  Christ 
r  11  none  but  Piiilip. 

Gardiner.    Hath  your  Giace  so  sworn ? 

Mary.    Ay,  Simon  Renard  knows  it. 

Gardiner.  News  to  me ! 

It  then  remains  for  your  poor  Gardiner, 

So  you  still  care  to  trust  him  somewhat 

less 
Than   Simon   Renard,    to   compose   the 

event 
In  some  such  form  as  least  may  harm 
your  Grace. 
Mary.    I  '11  have  the  scandal  sounded 
to  the  mud. 
I  know  it  a  scandal. 


478 


QUEEN   MAKY. 


Gardiner.  All  my  hope  is  now 

It  may  be  found  a  scandal. 

Mary.  You  offend  us. 

Gardiner  {aside).    These    princes   ai'e 

like  children,  must  be  physick'd, 

The  bitter  in   the  sweet.     I  have  lost 

mine  office, 
It  may  be,  thro'  mine  honesty,  like  a 
fool.  [Exit. 

Enter  Usher. 

Mary.    Who  waits  ? 

Usher.    The  Ambassador  from  France, 

your  Grace. 
Mary.    Bid  him  come  in.    Good-morn- 
ing, Sir  de  Noailles. 

[Exit  Usher. 
Noailles  {entering).    A  happy  morning 

to  your  Majesty. 
Mary.    And  1  should  some  time  have 
a  happy  morning; 
I  have  had  none  yet.      What  says  the 
King  your  master  ? 
Noailles.    Madam,    my   master   hears 
with  much  alarm, 
That  you  may  marry  Philip,  Prince  of 

Spain  — 
Foreseeing,  with  whate'er  unwillingness. 
That  if  this  Philip  be  the  titular  king 
Of  England,  and  at  war  with  him,  your 

Grace 
And  kingdom  will  be  suck'd  into  the 

war, 
Ay,  tho'  you  long  for  peace  ;  wherefore, 

my  master, 
If  but  to  prove   your  Majesty's  good 

will. 
Would  fain  have  some  fresh  treaty  drawn 
between  you. 
Mary.    Whysome  fresh  treaty  ?  where- 
fore should  I  doit? 
Sir,  if  we  marry,  we  shall  still  maintain 
All  former  treaties  with  his  Majesty. 
Our  royal  word  for  that !  and  your  good 

master. 
Pray  God  he  do  not  be  the  first  to  break 

them, 
Must  be  content  with  that ;  and  so,  fare- 
well. 
Noailles    {going,    returns).    I    would 
your    answer    had    been    other, 
Madam, 
For  I  foresee  dark  days. 

Mary.  And  so  do  I,  sir ; 

Your  master  works  against  me  in  the 

dark. 
I  do  believe  he  holp  Northumberland 
Against  me. 


Noailles.    Nay,    pure    fantasy,    youi 
Grace. 
Why  should  he  move  against  you  ? 

Mary.  Will  you  hear  whj't 

Mary   of    Scotland,  — ■  tor   I    have    not 

own'd 
My  sister,  and  I  will  not,  —  after  me 
Is  heir  of  England  ;  and  my  royal  father, 
To  make  the  crown  of  Scotland  one  with 

ours, 
Had  mark'd  her  for  my  brother  Edward's 

bride ; 
Ay,  but  your  king  stole  her  a  babe  from 

Scotland 
In  order  to  betroth  her  to  your  Dauphin, 
See  then  : 

Mary  of  Scotland,  married  to  your  Dau- 
phin, 
Would  make  our  England,  France ; 
Mary  of  England,  joining  hands  vdth 

Spain, 
Would  be  too  strong  for  France. 
Yea,  were  there  issue  born  to  her,  Spain 

and  we, 
One  crown,  might  rule  the  world.    There 

lies  your  fear. 
That  is  your  drift.     You  play  at  liide 

and  seek. 
Show  me  your  faces  ! 

Noailles.  Madam,  I  am  amazed  : 

French,    I   must   needs  wish  all   good 

things  for  France. 
That  must  be  pardon'd  me  ;  but  I  pro- 
test 
Your  Grace's  policy  hath  a  farther  flight 
Than  mine  into  the   future.     We   but 

seek 
Some  settled  ground  for  peace  to  stand 
upon. 
Mary.    Well,  we  will  leave  all  this, 
sir,  to  our  council. 
Have  you  seen  Philip  ever  ? 
Noailles.  Only  once. 

Mary.    Is  this  like  Philip  ? 
Noailles.  Ay,  but  nobler-looking. 

Mary.    Hath  lie  the  large   ability  of 

the  Emperor  ? 
Noailles.    No,  surelj\ 
Mary.    I  can  make  allowance  for  thee^ 
Thou  speakest  of  the  enemy  of  thy  king. 
Noailles.    Make  no  allowance  for  the 
naked  truth. 
He   is   every   way  a  lesser   man    than 

Charles  ; 
Stone-hard,  ice-cold  —  no  dash  of  daring 
in  liim. 
Mary.    If  cold,  his  life  is  pure. 


QUEEN   MARY. 


479 


Noailles.    Why,  {smiling),  no,  indeed. 

Mary.    Sayst  thou  ? 

Noailles.    A  very  wanton  life  indeed 

{smiliiuj). 
Mary.    Your  audience  is  concluded, 
sir.  [Exit  Noailles. 

You  cannot 
Learn  a  man's  nature  from  his  natural 
foe. 

Enter  Usher. 
Who  waits  ? 

Usher.    The  iunbas.sador  of  Spain,  your 
Grace.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Si.mon  Renard. 

Mary.    Thou  art  ever  welcome,  Simon 

Renard.     Hast  thou 
Brought  me  the  letter  which  thine  Em- 
peror promised 
Long  since,  a  formal  offer  of  the  hand 
Of  Philip? 

Renard.    Nay,  your  Grace,  it  hath  not 

reach'd  me. 
I  know  not  wherefore  —  some  mischance 

of  flood. 
And  broken  bridge,  or  spavin'd  horse,  or 

wave 
And  wind  at  their  old  battle  ;  he  must 

have  written. 
Mary.    But    Philip  never  writes   me 

one  poor  word, 
Which  in  his  absence  had  been  all  my 

wealth. 
Strange  in  a  wooer  ! 

Renard.  Yet  I  know  the  Piince, 

So  your  king-parliament  suffer  him  to 

land. 
Yearns  to   set   foot   upon   your   island 

shore. 
Mary.   God  change  the  pebble  which 

his  kingly  foot 
First  presses  into  some  more  costly  stone 
Than  ever  blinded  eye.     I  '11  nave  one 

mark  it 
And  bring  it  me.     I  '11  have  it  burnish'd 

firelike  ; 
1  '11  set  it  round  with  gold,  with  pearl, 

with  diamond. 
Let  the  great  angel  of  the  church  come 

with  him  ; 
Stand  on  the  deck  and  spread  his  wings 

for  sail  ! 
God  lay  the  waves  and  strew  the  storms 

at  sea, 
And  here  at  land  among  the  people.     0 

Renard, 
I  am  much  beset,  I  am  almost  in  despair. 


Paget   is  ours.     Gardiner   perchance  is 

ours  ; 
But  for  our  heretic  Parliament  — 

Renard.  0  Madam, 

You  fly  your  thoughts  like  kites.     My 

master,  Charles, 
Bade  you  go  softly  with  youi-  heretics 

here, 
Until  your  throne  had  ceased  to  tremble. 

Then 
Spit  them  like  larks  for  aught  I  care. 

Besides, 
When  Henry  broke  the  carcass  of  j'our 

church 
To    pieces,    there    were    many   wolves 

among  you 
AV'ho  diagg'd  the  scatter'd  limbs  into 

their  den. 
Tlie  Pope  would  have  you  make  them 

render  these  ; 
So  would  your  cousin,  Cardinal  Pole  ; 

ill  counsel ! 
These  let  them  keep  at  present  •,  stir 

not  yet 
This  matter  of  the  Church  lands.     At 

his  coming 
Your  star  will  ri.se. 

Mary.  My  star  !  a  baleful  one. 

I  see  but  the  black  night,  and  hear  the 

wolf. 
What  star  ? 

Renard.    Your     star    will    be    your 

princely  son, 
Heir  of  this  England  and  the  Nether- 
lands ! 
And  if  your  wolf  the  while  should  howl 

for  more 
We  '11  dust  him  from  a  bag  of  Spanish 

gold. 
I  do  believe,  I  have  dusted  some  already, 
That,  soon  or  late,  your  parliament  is 

ours. 
Mary.    Why  do  they  talk  so  foully 

of  your  Prince, 
Renard  ? 

Renard.    The  lot  of  Princes.     To  sit 

high 
Is  to  be  lied  about. 

Mary.  They  call  him  cold, 

Haughty,  ay,  worse. 

Renard.  Why,  doubtless,  Philip  shows 
Some  of  the  bearing  of  your  blue  blood 

—  still 
All  within  measure  —  nay,  it  well  be- 
comes Iiim. 
Mary.    Hath  he  the  large  ability  of 

his  lather  ? 


480 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Renard.    Nay,  some  believe  that  he 

will  go  beyond  him. 
Mary.    Is  this  like  hiin  ? 
Renard.    Ay,    somewhat ;    but    vour 
Philip 
Is  the  most  princelike  Prince  beneath 

the  sun. 
This  is  a  daub  to  Philip. 

Mary.  Of  a  pure  life  ? 

Renard.    As  an  angel  among  angels. 
Yea,  by  Heaven, 
The  text  —  Your  Highness   knows  it, 

"  Whosoever 
Looketh  after  a  woman,"  would  not  graze 
The  Prince  of  Sj^ain.     You  are  happy 

in  liini  there. 
Chaste  as  your  grace  ! 

Mary.  1  am  happy  in  him  there. 

Renard.    And   would    be    altogether 
happy.   Madam, 
So  that  your  .sister  were  but  look'd  to 

closer. 
You  have  sent  her  from  the  court,  but 

then  she  goes, 
I  warrant,  not  to  hear  the  nightingales, 
But  hatch  you  some  new  treason  in  the 
woods. 
Mary.    We  have  our  spies  abroad  to 
catch  her  tiipping, 
And  then  if  caught,  to  the  Tower. 

Renard.  The  Tower  !  the  block. 

The   word   has   turn'd   your    Highness 

pale  ;  the  tiling 
Was  no  such  scarecrow  in  your  father's 

time. 
I  have  heard,  the  tongue  yet  quiver'd 

with  the  jest 
When  the  head  leapt  —  so  common  !    I 

do  think 
To  save  your  crown  that  it  must  come 
to  this. 
Mary.    I   love  her  not,   but   all   the 
people  love  her. 
And  would  not  have  her  even  to  the 
Tower. 
Renard.    Not  yet ;  but  your  old  Trai- 
tors of  the  Tower  — 
"Why,  when  you  put  Northumberland 

to  death, 
The  sentence  having  past  upon   them 

all, 
Si)ared  you  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Guild- 
ford Dudley, 
Ev'n  that  young  girl  who  dared  to  wear 
j'our  crown  ? 
Mary.    Dared,  no,  not  that ;  the  child 
obey'd  her  father. 


Spite  of  her  tears  her  father  forced  it  on 

lier. 
Renard.    Good  Madam,  when  the  Ro- 
man wish'd  to  reign, 
He  slew  not  him  alone  who  wore  the 

purple. 
But  his  assessor  in  the  throne,  perchance 
A  child  more  innocent  than  Lady  Jane. 
Mary.    I  am  English  Queen,  not  Ro- 
man Emperor. 
Renard.    Yet   too   much  mercy  is  a 

want  of  mercy. 
And  wastes  more  life.     Stamp  out  the 

tire,  or  this 
Will  smoulder  and  re-flame,  and  burn 

the  throne 
Where  you  should  sit  with  Philip:  he 

will  not  come 
Till  she  be  gone. 

Mary.        Indeed,  if  that  were  true  — 
But  I  must  say  farewell.     1  am  some- 
what faint 
With  our  long  talk.     Tho'  Queen,  1  am 

not  Queen 
Of  mine  own  heart,  which  every  now 

and  then 
Beats   me    half   dead :    yet    stay,    this 

golden  chain  — 
My  father  on  a  birthday  gave  it  me. 
And  I  have  broken  with  my  father  — 

take 
And  wear  it  as  memorial  of  a  morning 
Which  found  me  full  of  foolish  doubts, 

and  leaves  me 
As  liopeful. 

Renard  (aside).    Whew  —  the  folly  of 

all  follies 
Is  to  be  love-sick  for  a  shadow.    (Aloud.) 

Madam, 
This  chains  me  to  your  service,  not  with 

gold, 
But   dearest   links   of  love.     Farewell, 

and  trust  me, 
Philip  is  yours.  [Exit. 

Mary.     Mine  —  but  not  yet  all  mine. 

JEnter  Usher. 

Usher.    Your  Council  is  in   Session, 

please  your  Majesty. 
3Iary.    Sir,  let  them  sit.     I  must  have 

time  to  breathe. 
No,  say  I  come.  (Exit  Usher.)     I  won 

by  boldness  once. 
The    Emperor   counsell'd   me   to   fly  to 

Flanders. 
I   would  not ;   but  a  hundred  miles  I 

rode. 


QUEEN    UARY. 


481 


Sent  out  my  letters,  call'd   my  friends 

together, 
Struck  home  and  won. 
And  when  the  Council  would  not  crown 

me  —  thought 
To  bind  me  first  by  oaths  I  could  not 

keep, 
And  keep  with  Christ  and  conscience  — 

was  it  boldness 
Or  weakness  that  won  there  ?     when  I 

their  Queen, 
Cast  myself  down  upon  my  knees  before 

them. 
And  those  hard  men  brake  into  woman 

tears, 
Ev'n  Gardiner,  all  amazed,  and  in  that 

passion 
Gave  me  n)y  Crown. 

Enter  Alice. 

Girl ;  hast  thou  ever  heard 
Slanders  against   Prince  Philip  in  our 
Court  ? 
Alice.    What      slanders  ?       I,      your 

Grace  ;  no,  never. 
Marnj.  Nothing  ? 

Alice.    Never,  your  Grace. 
Mary.    See  that  you  neither  hear  them 

nor  repeat ! 
Alice  (aside).    Good  Lord  !  but  I  have 
heard  a  thousand  such. 
Ay,  and  repeated  tliem  as  often  —  mum  ! 
Why  comes  that  old  fox-Fleming  back 
again  ? 

Enter  Renard. 

Eenard.    Madam,    I   scarce    had   left 
your  Grace's  presence 
Before  I  chanced  upon  the  messenger 
Who  brings  that  letter  which  we  waited 

for  — 
The  formal  offer  of  Prince  Philip's  hand. 
It  craves  an  instant  answer.  Ay  or  No? 
Mary.    An   instant.  Ay   or  No  !   the 
Council  sits. 
Give  it  me  quick. 

Alice  (stepping  before  her).    Your  High- 
ness is  all  trembling. 
Mary.    Make  way. 

\^Exit  into  the  Council  Chamber. 
Alice.    0,  Master  Renard,  Master  Re- 
nard, 
If  you  have  falsely  painted   your  fine 

Prince ; 
Praised,  where  you  should  have  blamed 

him,  I  pray  God 
No  woman  ever  love  you.  Master  Renard. 


I  It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  her  moan  at 

i  ,"'g^* . 

j  As  tho'  the  nightmare  never  left  her  bed. 

!      Renard.    My  pretty  maiden,  tell  me, 

I  did  you  ever 

1  Sigh  for  a  beard  ? 

I      Alice.    That 's  not  a  pretty  question. 

I      Renard.    Not  prettily  put  ?     I  meaU; 

my  pretty  maiden, 

A  pretty  man  for  such  a  pretty  maiden. 

Alice.    My  Lord  of  Devon  is  a  pretty 

man. 

I  I  hate  him.     Well,  but  if  1  have,  what 

I  then  ? 

Renard.    Then,    pretty    maiden,    you 

should  know  that  whether 

A  wind  be  warm  or  cold,  it  serves  to  fan 

A  kindled  fire. 

Alice.    According  to  the  song. 

"His  friends  would  praise  him,  I  believed  'em, 
His  foes  would  blame  liim,  and  I  scorned 'em, 

His  friends — ^as  Angels  I  received  'em, 
His  foes  —  The  Devil  had  suborn'd  'en»." 

Renard.    Peace,  pretty  maiden. 
I    hear  them   stirring    in   the   Council 

Chamber. 
Lord  Paget's  "  Ay  "  is  sure  —  who  else  '( 

and  yet, 
They  are  all  too  much  at  odds  to  close  at 

once 
In  one  full  throated  No  !    Her  Highness 

comes. 

Enter  M.A.UY. 

Alice.    How  deathly  pale  !  —  a  chair, 
your  Highness. 

[B)-inging  one  to  the  Queen. 
Renard.  Madam, 

The  Council  ? 

Mary.        Ay !  My  Philip  is  all  mine. 
[Sinks  into  chair,  half  fainting 


SCENE  I. 


ACT  II. 
ALLINGTON  CASTLE. 


Sir   Thomas    Wyatt.    I   do  not  hear 

from  Carew  or  the  Duke 
Of  Suffolk,  and  till  then  I  should  not 

move. 
The  Duke  hath  gone  to  Leicester  ;  Ca- 

rev/  stirs 
In  Devon  :  that  fine  porcelain  Courte- 

nay. 


482 


QUEEN    MARY. 


Save  that  he  fears  he  might  be  crack'cl 

in  using, 
(I  have  known  a  semi-madman  in  my 

time 
So  fancy-ridd'n)  should  be  in  Devon  too. 

Eiiter  William. 
News  abroad,  William  ? 

William.  None  so  new,  Sir  Thomas, 
and  none  so  old,  Sir  Thomas.  No  new 
news  that  Philip  comes  to  wed  Mary, 
no  old  news  that  all  men  hate  it.  Old 
Sir  Thomas  would  have  hated  it.  The 
bells  are  ringing  at  Maidstone.  Does  n't 
your  worship  hear  ? 

Wyatt.    Ay,  for  the  Saints  are  come 
to  reign  again. 
Most  like  it  is  a  Saint's-day.     There  's 

no  call 
As  yet  for  me  ;  so  in  this  pause,  before 
The  mine  Ije  fired,  it  were  a  pious  work 
To  string  my  father's  sonnets,  left  about 
Like  loosely-scatter'd  jewels,  in  fair  or- 
der, 
And  head  them  with  a  lamer  rhyme  of 

mine, 
To  grace  his  memory. 

William.  Ay,  why  not.  Sir  Thomas  ? 
He  was  a  fine  courtier,  he  ;  Queen  Anne 
loved  him.  All  the  women  loved  him. 
I  loved  him,  I  was  in  Spain  with  him. 
I  could  n't  eat  in  Spain,  I  could  n't  sleep 
in  Spain.  I  hate  Spain,  Sir  Thomas. 
Wyatt.    But  thou   couldst   drink    in 

Spain  if  I  remember. 
William.    Sir  Thomas,  we  may  grant 
the    wine.      Old    Sir   Thomas    always 
granted  the  wine. 

Wyatt.    Hand  me  the  casket  with  my 

father's  sonnets. 
William.  Ay — sonnets  — a  fine  court- 
ier of  the  old  Court,  old  Sir  Thomas. 

[Exit. 
Wyatt.    Courtier  of  many  courts,  he 
loved  the  more 
His  own  gray  towers,  plain  life  and  let- 

ter'd  peace. 
To  read  and  I'hyme  in  solitary  fields. 
The  lark  above,  the  nightingale  below. 
And  answer  them   in   song.     The   sire 

begets 

Not  half  his  likeness  in  the  son.     I  fail 

Where  he  was  fullest  :  yet  —  to  write  it 

down.  [He  writes. 

Re-enter  William. 

William.    There   is  news,    there    is 

news,  and  no  call  for  sonnet-sorting  now". 


nor  for  sonnet-making  either,  but  ten 
thousand  men  on  Penenden  Heath  all 
calling  after  your  worship,  and  your 
worship's  name  heard  into  JMaidstone 
market,  and  your  worship  the  first  man 
in  Kent  and  Christendom,  for  the  world  'a 
up,  and  your  worship  a-top  of  it. 

Wyatt.    Inverted   iEsop  —  mountain 
out  of  mouse. 
Say   for   ten  thousand   ten  —  and   pot- 
house knaves, 
Brain-dizzied  with  a  draught  of  morn 
ing  ale. 

Enter  Antony  Kntvett. 

William.    Here  's  Antony  Kny  vett. 
Knyvett.       Look  you,  Master  Wyatt, 
Tear  up  that  woman's  work  there. 

Wyatt.  No  ;  not  thes;-, 

Dumb  children  of  my  father^  that  will 

speak 
Wlien  1  and  thou  and  all  rebellions  lie 
Dead  bodies  without  voice.     Song  flies 

you  know 
For  ages. 
Knyvett.    Tut,  your  sonnet 's  a  flying 
ant, 
Wing'd  for  a  moment. 

Wyatt.        Well,  for  mine  own  work 
[tearing  the  paper. 
It  lies  there  in  six  pieces  at  your  feet ; 
For  all  that  I  can  carry  it  in  my  head. 
Knyvett.    If  you  carry  your  head  upon 

your  shoulders. 
Wyatt.    I  fear  you  come  to  carry  it  ofi 
my  shoulders, 
And  sonnet-making's  safer. 

Knyvett.  Why,  good  Lord, 

Write    you    as    manv   sonnets  as   you 

will. 
Ay,  but  not  now  ;  what,  have  you  eyes, 

ears,  brains  ? 
This  Philip  and  the  black-faced  swarms 

of  Spain, 
The   hardest,    cruellest    people   in   the 

world. 
Come  locusting  upon  us,  eat  us  up, 
Confiscate  lands,  goods,  money — Wyatt, 

Wyatt, 
Wake,  or  the  stout  old  island  will  be- 
come 
A  rotten  limb  of  Spain.     They  roar  for 

you 
On  Penenden  Heath,  a  thousand  of  them 

—  more  — 
All  arm'd,  waiting  a  leader ;  thei'e  's  no 
glory 


QUEEN    MARY. 


483 


Like  his  who  saves  his   country  :  and 

you  sit 
Sing-songing   here  ;    but,    if  I  'm   any 

By  God,  you  are  as  poor  a  poet,  Wyatt, 
As  a  good  soldier. 

Wyatt.  You  as  poor  a  critic 

As  an  honest  friend  :  you  stroke  me  on 

one  cheek, 
Buffet  the  other.     Come,  you  bhister, 

Antony  ! 
You  know  I  know  all  this.     I  must  not 

move 
Until  I  hear  from  Carew  and  the  Duke. 
I  fear  the  mine  is  lired  before  the  time. 
Knyvett  {shoioimj  a  paper).   But  here  'a 

some  Hebrew.     Faith,  I  half  for- 
got it. 
Look  ;  can    you  make  it   English  ?     A 

strange  youth 
Suddenly   thrust   it  on  me,  whisper'd, 

"Wyatt,"* 
And  wliisking  round  a  corner,  show'd  liis 

back 
Before  I  read  his  face. 

Wyatt.  Ha  !  Courtenay's  cipher. 

\^l{eacls. 
"  Sir  Peter  Carew  fled  to  France  :  it  is 
thought  the  Duke  will  be  taken.  I  am 
with  you  still  ;  but,  for  appearance' 
sake,  stay  with  the  Queen.  Gardiner 
knows,  but  the  '^'ouncil  are  all  at  odds, 
and  the  Queen  hath  no  force  for  resist- 
ance.    Move,  if  you  move,  at  once." 

Is   Peter    Carew   fled  ?     Is    the    Duke 

taken  ? 
Down  scabbard,  and  out  sword  !  and  let 

Rebellion 
Roar  till  throne  rock,  and  crown  fall. 

No  ;  not  that  ; 
But  we  will  teach  Queen  Mary  how  to 

reign. 
Who  are  those  that  shout  belc  iv  there  ? 
Knyvett.  Why,  some  fifty 

That  follow'd  me  from  Penenden  Heath 

in  hope 
To  hear  you  speak. 

Wyatt.  Open  the  window,  Knyvett ; 
The  mine  is  fired,  and  I  will  speak  to 

them. 

Men  of  Kent ;  England  of  England ;  you 
that  have  kept  your  old  customs  upright, 
while  all  the  rest  of  England  bovv'd 
theirs  to  the  Norman,  the  cause  that 
hath  brought  us  together  is  not  the 
cause  of  a  county  or  a  shire,  but  of  this 


England,  in  whose  crown  our  Kent  is 
tiie  fairest  jewel.  Philip  sliall  not  wed 
Mary  ;  and  ye  have  called  me  to  be  your 
leader.  I  know  Spain.  I  have  been 
there  with  my  father  ;  I  have  seen  them 
in  their  own  land  ;  have  marked  the 
iiaughtiness  of  their  nobles  ;  tiie  cruelty 
of  their  priests.  If  this  man  marry  our 
(iueen,  however  the  Council  and  the 
Commons  may  fence  round  his  power 
with  restriction,  he  will  be  King,  King 
of  England,  my  masters ;  and  the  Queen, 
and  the  laws,  and  the  people,  iiis  slaves. 
What  ?  shall  we  have  Spain  on  the 
throne  and  in  the  parliament  ;  Spain  in 
the  p\ilpit  and  on  the  law-bench  ;  Spain 
in  all  the  great  offices  of  state  ;  Spain 
in  our  ships,  in  our  forts,  in  our  houses, 
in  our  beds  ? 

Crowd.    No  !  no  !  no  Spain. 

William.  No  Spain  in  our  beds — ■ 
that  were  worse  than  all.  I  have  been 
there  with  old  Sir  Thomas,  and  the  beds 
1  know.     1  hate  Spain. 

A  Feasant.  But,  Sir  Thomas,  must 
we  levy  war  against  the  Queen's  Grace? 

Wyatt.  No,  my  friend  ;  war  for  the 
Queen's  Grace — to  save  her  from  her- 
self and  Philip  —  war  against  Spain. 
And  think  not  we  shall  be  alone  —  thou- 
sands will  flock  to  VIS.  The  Council,  the 
Court  itself,  is  on  our  side.  The  Lord 
Chancellor  himself  is  on  our  .side.  The 
King  of  France  is  with  us  ;  the  King  of 
Denmark  is  with  us  ;  the  world  is  with 
us  —  war  against  Spain  !  And  if  we 
move  not  now,  yet  it  will  be  known 
that  we  have  moved  ;  and  if  Philip 
come  to  be  King,  0,  my  God  !  the  rope, 
the  rack,  the  thumb-screw,  the  stake, 
the  lire.  If  we  move  not  now,  Spain 
moves,  bribes  our  nobles  with  her  gold, 
and  creeps,  creeps  snake-like  about  our 
legs  till  we  cannot  move  at  all  ;  and  ye 
know,  ray  masters,  that  wherever  Spain 
hath  ruled  she  hath  wither'd  all  beneath 
her.  Look  at  the  New  World  —  a  par- 
adise made  hell ;  the  red  man,  that 
good  helpless  creature,  starved,  niaim'd, 
flogg'd,  ilay'd,  burn'd,  boil'd,  buried 
alive,  worried  by  dogs  ;  and  here,  near- 
er home,  the  Netherlands,  Sicily,  Na- 
])les,  Lombardy.  I  say  no  more  —  only 
this,  their  lot  is  yours.  Forward  to 
TiOndon  with  me  !  forward  to  London  ! 
If  ye  love  your  liberties  or  your  skins, 
forward  to  London  ! 


484 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Crowd.    Forward  to  London  !    A  Wy- 

att  !  a  Wyatt ! 
Wyatf.    But  first  to  Rochester,  to  take 
the  guns 
From  out  the  vessels  lying  in  the  river. 
Then  on. 
A  Peasant.    Ay,  but  I  fear  we  be  too 

few.  Sir  Tliornas. 
Wyatt.    Not  many  yet.   The  world  as 
yet,  my  friend, 
Is  not  half-waked  ;  but  every   parish 

tower 
Shall  clang  and   clash   alarum  as   we 

pass. 
And  pour  along  the  land,  and  swoU'n 

and  fed 
"With  indraughts  and  side-currents,  in 

full  force 
Roll  upon  London. 

Croiud.    A   Wyatt  !  a    Wyatt  !     For- 
ward ! 
Knyvett.    Wyatt,   shall  we   proclaim 

Elizabeth  ? 
Wyatt.    I  '11  think  upon  it,  Knyvett. 
Knyvett.  Or  Lady  Jane  { 

Wyatt.    No,  poor  soul  ;  no. 
Ah,  gray  old  castle  of  AUington,  green 

field 
Beside  the  brimming  Medway,  it  may 

chance 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  you  more. 
Knyvett.    Come,  now,  you  're  sonnet- 
ting  again. 
Wyatt.  Not  I. 

I  '11  have   my  head  set   higher  in  the 

state  ; 
Or  —  if  the  Lord  God  will  it  —  on  the 
stake.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE   IL  —  GUILDHALL. 

Sir  Thomas  White  {The  Lord  Mayor), 
Lord  William  Howard,  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall,  Aldermen  and  Citizens. 

White.    I  trust  the  Queen  comes  hith- 
er witli  her  guards. 
Roivard.    Ay,  all  in  arms. 
[^Several  of  the  citizens  move  hastily 
out  of  the  hall. 

Why  do  they  hurry  out  there  ? 

WJiite.    lly  Lord,  cut  out  the  rotten 

from  your  ajiple. 

Your  apple  eats  the  better.    Let  them  go. 

They  go  like  those  old  Pharisees  in  John 

Convicted   by   their  conscience,  arrant 

cowards, 


Or  tamperers  with  that  treason  out  of 

Kent. 
When  will  her  Grace  be  here  ? 

Howard.  In  some  few  minute.^. 

She  will  address  your  guilds  and  com- 
panies. 
I  have  striven  in  vain  to  raise  a  man  tor 

her. 
But  help  her  in  this  exigency,  make 
Your  city  loyal,  and  be  the  mighties 

man 
This  day  in  England. 

White.  I  am  Thomas  White. 

Few  things  have  fail'd  to  which  I  set  my 

will. 
I  do  my  most  and  best. 

Hoivard.  You  know  that  after 

The  Captain  Brett,  who  went  with  your 

train  bands 
To  fight  with  Wyatt,  had  gone  over  to 

him 
With  all  his   men,  the   Queen  in  that 

distress 
Sent   Cornwallis    and   Hastings   to  the 

traitor. 
Feigning  to  treat  with  him  about  her 

marriage  — 
Know  too  what  Wyatt  said. 

White.  He  'd  sooner  be. 

While  this  same  marriage  question  was 

being  argued. 
Trusted  than  trust  —  the   scoundrel  — ■ 

and  demanded 
Possession  of  her  person  and  the  Tower. 
Hoivard.    And  four  of  her  poor  Coun- 
cil too,  my  Lord, 
As  hostages. 

White.    I  know  it.     What  do  and  say 
Your  Council  at  this  hour  ? 

Howard.  I  will  trast  you. 

We  fling  ourselves  on  you,   my  Lord. 

The  Council, 
The   parliament   as   well,    are    troubled 

waters  ; 
And  yet  like  waters  of  tlie  fen  theyknov,- 

not 
Which  way  to  flow.     All  hangs  on  he, 

address, 
And  upon  you.  Lord  Mayor. 

White.  How  look'd  the  city 

When  now  you  past  it  I     Quiet  ? 

Howard.  Like  our  Council, 

Your  city  is  divided.     As  we  past, 
Some  hail'd,  some  hiss'd  us.    'There  were 

citizens 
Stood  each  before  his  shut-up  booth,  an(j 

look'd 


QUEEN   MARY. 


485 


As  grim  and  grave  as  from  a  funeral. 
And  here  a  knot  of  ruffians  all  in  rags, 
With  execrating  execrable  eyes, 
Glared  at  the  citizen.    Here  was  a  young 

mother, 
Her  face  on  Hame,  her  red  hair  all  blown 

back, 
She  shrilling  "Wyatt,"  while  the  boy 

she  held 
Miraick'd  and  piped  her  "Wyatt,"  as 

red  as  she 
In  hair  and  cheek  ;  and  almost  elbowing 

her. 
So   close   they  stood,  another,  mute  as 

death, 
And  white  as  her  own  milk  ;  her  babe 

in  arms 
Had   felt   the  faltering  of  his  mother's 

heart. 
And  look'd  as  bloodless.     Here  a  pious 

Catholic, 
Mumbling  and  mixing  up  in  his  scared 

prayers 
Heaven  and   earth's  Maries ;  over  his 

bow'd  shoulder 
Scowl'd    that    world-hated    and    world- 
hating  beast, 
A    haggard    Anabaptist.      Many    such 

groups. 
The  names  of  Wyatt,  Elizabeth,  Courte- 

nay, 
Nay  the  Queen's  right  to  reign  —  'fore 

God,  the  rogues  — 
Were  freely  buzz'd  among  them.     So  I 

say 
Your  city  is  divided,  and  I  fear 
One  scruple,  this  or  that  way,  of  success 
Would  turn  it  thither.     Wherefore  now 

the  Queen 
In  this  low  ]>ulse  and  palsy  of  the  state, 
Bade  me  to  tell  you  that  she  counts  on 

you 
And  on  myself  as  her  two  hands  ;  on 

you, 
In  your  own  city,  as  her  right,  my  Lord, 
For  vou  are  loyal. 

IFhite.  Am  I  Thomas  White  ? 

One  word  before  she  comes.    Elizabeth  — 
Her  name  is  much  abused  among  these 

traitors. 
Where  is  -she  ?    She  is  loved  by  all  of  us. 
I   scarce  have  heart  to  mingle  in  this 

matter. 
If  she  should  be  mishandled  ? 

Howard.  No  ;  she  shall  not. 

The  Queen  had  written  iier  word  to  come 
to  court. 


Methought  I  smelt  out  Kenard   in  the 

letter. 
And  fearing  for  her,  sent  a  secret  missive, 
Which  told  her  to  be  sick.     Happily  oi 

not, 
It  found  her  sick  indeed. 

IVhitc.  God  send  her  well ; 

Here  comes  her  Royal  Grace. 

Eivter  Guards,  Mary,  and  Gardiner.  Sii 
Thomas  White  leads  her  to  a  raised  secu 
on  the  dais. 

White.    I,  the  Lord  Mayor,  and  these 

our  companies 
And  guilds  of  London,  gathered  here, 

beseech 
Your  Highness  to  accept   our   lowliest 

thanks 
For  your  most  princely  presence  ;   and 

we  pray 
That  we,  your  true  and  loyal  citizens, 
From  your  own  royal  lips,  at  once  may 

know 
The  vVherefore  of  this  coming,   and   so 

learn 
Your  Royal  will,  and  do  it.  —  I,  Lord 

Mayor 
Of  London,  and  our  Guilds  and  Compa- 
nies. 
Mary.    In  mine  own  person  am  I  come 

to  you, 
To   tell  you   what   indeed   ye   see    and 

know. 
How   traitorously   these    rebels   out    of 

Kent 
Have  made  strong  head  against  ourselves 

and  you. 
They  would  not  have  me  wed  the  Prince 

of  Spain  ; 
That  was  their  pretext  —  so  they  spake 

at  first  — 
But  we  sent  divers  of  our  Council  to 

them. 
And  by  their  answers   to  the  question 

ask'd, 
It  doth  appear  this  marriage  is  the  least 
Of  all  their  quarrel. 
They  have  betrayed  the  treason  of  their 

hearts  : 
Seek   to   possess   our  person,  hold   our 

Tower, 
Place  and  displace  our  councillors,  and  use 
Both  us  and  them  according  as  they  will. 
Now  what  am  1  ye  know  right  well  — 

your  Queen  ; 
To  whom,  when   I  was  wedded   to  the 

realm 


486 


QUEEN   MARY. 


And  the  realm's  laws  (the  spous.il  ring 

whereof, 
Not  ever  to  be  laid  aside,  I  wear 
Upon  tills  finger),  ye  did  promise  full 
Allegiance  and  oliedience  to  the  death. 
Ye  know  my  father  was  the  rightful  heir 
Of  England,  and  his  right  came  down  to 

me, 
Corroborate  by  your  acts  of  Parliament : 
And  as  ye  were  most  loving  unto  him. 
So  doubtless  will  ye  show  yourselves  to 

me. 
Wherefore,  ye  will  not  brook  that  any 

one 
Should    seize   our   person,   occupy   our 

state, 
More  especially  a  traitor  so  presumptuous 
As  this  same  Wyatt,  who  hath  tamper'd 

with 
A  public  ignorance,  and,  under  color 
Of  such  a  cause  as  bath  no  color,  seeks 
To  bend  the  laws  to  his  own  will,  and 

yield 
Full  scope  to  persons  rascal  and  forlorn, 
To  make  free  spoil  and  havoc  of  your 

goods. 
Now  as  your  Prince,  I  say, 
I,  that  was  never  mother,  cannot  tell 
How  mothers  love  their  children ;  yet, 

methinks, 
A  prince  as  naturally  may  love  his  peo- 
ple 
As  these  their  children  ;   and  be   sure 

your  Queen 
So  loves  you,  and  so  loving,  needs  must 

deem 
This  love  by  you  return'd  as  heartily  ; 
And  thro'  this  common  knot  and  bond 

of  love, 
Doubt  not  they  will  be  sjjeedily  over- 
thrown. 
As  to  this  marriage,  ye  shall  understand 
We  made  thereto  no  treaty  of  ourselves, 
And  set  no  foot  tlieretoward  unadvised 
Of  all  our  Privy  Council;  furthermore. 
This  marriage  had  the  assent  of  those  to 

whom 
The  king,  my  father,  did   commit  his 

trust ; 
Who  not  alone  esteem'd  it  honorable, 
But  for  the  wealth   and  glory  of   our 

realm, 
And  all  our  loving  subjects,  most  expe- 
dient. 
As  to  myself, 

I  ara  not  so  set  on  wedlock  as  to  choose 
But  where  I  list,  nor  yet  so  amorous 


Tliat  1  must  needs  be  husbanded  ;  I  thank 
God, 

I  have  lived  a  virgin,  and  I  noway  doubt 

But  that  with  God's  grace,  1  can  live  so 
still. 

Yet  if  it  might  please  God  tiiat  I  should 
leave 

Some  fruit  of  mine  own  body  after  me. 

To  be  your  king,  ye  would  rejoice  there- 
at, 

And  it  would  be  your  comfort,  as  I  trust ; 

And  truly,  if  I  either  thought  or  knew 

This  marriage  should  bring  loss  or  dan- 
ger to  you. 

My  subjects,  or  impair  in  any  way 

This  royal  state  of  England,  I  would 
never 

Consent  thereto,  nor  marry  while  I  live  ; 

Moreover,  if  this  niarriage  should  not 
seem. 

Before  our  own  high  Court  of  Parlia- 
ment, 

To  be  of  rich  advantage  to  our  realm, 

We  will  refrain,  and  not  alone  from  this, 

Likewise  from  any  other,  out  of  which 

Looms  the  least  chance  of  peril  to  our 
realm. 

Wherefore  be  bold,  and  with  your  law- 
ful Prince 

Stand  fast  against  our  enemies  and  3'ours, 

And  fear  them  not.    I  fear  them  not.    My 
Lord, 

I  leave  Lord  William  Howard  in  your 
city. 

To  guard  and  keep  you  whole  and  safe 
from  all 

The  spoil  and  sackage  aim'd  at  by  these 
rebels, 

Who  month  and  foam  against  the  Prince 
of  Spain. 
Voices.     Long  live  Queen  Mary  ! 
Down  with  Wyatt ! 

The  Queen  ! 
White.     Three  voices  from  our  guilds 
and  companies ! 

Y'ou  are  shy  and  proud  like  Englishmen, 
my  masters, 

And  will  not  trust  your  voices.     Under- 
stand : 

Your  lawful  Prince  hath  come  to  cast 
herself 

On  loyal  hearts  and  bosoms,  hoped  to 
fail 

Into  the  wide-spread  arms  of  fealty, 

And  finds  you  statues.     Speak  at  once 
—  and  all ! 

For  whom  1 


QUEEN    MARY. 


487 


Our  sovereign  Lady  by  King  Harrv's 

will; 
Tlie  QuLeu  uf  England  —  or  the  Kentish 

Squire  ? 
I  know  vuu  loyal.     Sjjeak  !  in  the  name 

of  God  ! 
The  Queen  of  Enghiud  or  the  rabble  of 

Kenf? 
Tiie  reeking  dungfork   master   of    the 

nnice '! 
Your  havings  wasted  by  the  scythe  and 

spade  — 
Your  rights  and  charters  hobnail'd  into 

slush  — 
Your  houses  tired  —  your  gutters  bub- 
bling blood  — 
Acclamation.    No!  No!    The  Queen  ! 

the  Queen ! 
White.  Your  Highness  hears 

This  burst  and  bass  of  loyal  harmony, 
And  how  we  each  and  all  of  us  abhor 
The  venomous,  bestial,  devilish  revolt 
Of  Thomas  Wyatt.     Hear  us  now  make 

oath 
To  raise  your  Highness  thirty  thousand 

men. 
And  arm  and  strike  as  with  one  hand, 

and  brush 
This  Wvatt  from  our  shoulders,  like  a 

flea 
That  might  have  leapt  upon  us  unawares, 
Swear  with  me,  noble  fellow-citizens,  all, 
With  all    your  trades,  and  guilds,  and 

companies. 
Citizens.     We  swear ! 
Marij.     We  thank  your  Loidship  and 

your  loyal  city. 

\_kxit  Maky  attended. 
While.     I  trust  this  day,  thro'  God,  I 

have  saved  the  crown. 
First  .\lderman.     Ay,  so  my  Lord  of 

Pembroke  in  command 
Of  all  her  force  be  safe ;  but  there  are 

doubts. 
Second  Alderman.     I  hear  that  Gardi- 
ner, coming  with  the  Queen, 
And    meeting   Pembroke,    bent    to    his 

saddle-bow. 
As  if  to  win  the  man  by  flattering  him. 
Is  he  so  safe  to  fight  upon  her  side  ? 
First  Alderman.     If  not,  there's    no 

man  safe. 
White.  Yes,  Thomas  White. 

I  am  safe  enough ;  no  man  need  flatter 

nie. 
Second  Alderman.    Nay,  no  man  need ; 

but  did  you  mark  our  Queen? 


The  color  freely  play'd  into  her  face, 
\i\(\  the  half  sight  which  makes  her  look 

so  stern, 
Seeni'd  thro'  that  dim  dilated  world  of 

hers, 
To  read  our  faces ;  I  have  never  seen  her 
So  queenly  or  so  goodly. 

White.  Courage,  sir, 

Fitat  makes  or  man  or  woman  look  their 

goodliest. 
Die  like  the  torn  fox  dumb,  but  never 

whine 
Like  that  poor  heart,  Northumberland, 

at  the  block. 
Bagenhall.     The    man    had    children, 

and  he  whined  for  those. 
Methinks  most  men  are  but  poor-hearted, 

else 
Should  we  so  doat  on  courage,  were  it 

commoner '? 
The  Queen  stands  up,  and  speaks  for  her 

own  self ; 
And  all  men  cry,  she  is  queenly,  she  is 

goodly. 
Yet  she  's  no  goodlier ;    tho'  my  Lord 

Mayor  here, 
By  his  own  rule,  he  hath  been  so  bold 

to-day. 
Should  look  more  goodly  than  the  rest 

of  us. 
White.    Goodly  1     I  feel  most  goodly 

lieart  and  hand. 
And  strong  to  throw  ten  Wyatts  and  all 

Kent. 
Ha!   ha!   sir;   but  you  jest;  I  love  it: 

a  jest 
In  time  of  danger  shows  the  pulses  even. 
Be  merry  !  yet.  Sir  Kalph,  you  look  but 

sad. 
I  dare  avouch  you  'd  stand  up  for  your- 
self, 
Tho'  all  the  world  should  bay  like  winter 

wolves. 
Bagenhall.     Who  knows?  the  man  is 

proven  by  the  hour. 
White.     The   man   should  make  the 

hour,  not  this  the  man; 
And    Thomas    White    will    prove  this 

Thomas  Wyatt, 
And   he   will   prove    an    Ideu   to    this 

Cade, 
And  he  will  plav  the  Walworth  to  this 

Wat; 
Come,  sirs,  we  prate  ;  hence  all  —  gather 

yonr  men  — 
Myself   must  bustle.     Wyatt  comes  to 

Southwark ; 


488 


QUEEN   MARY. 


I  '11  have  the  drawbridge  hewn  into  the 

Thames, 
And  see  the  citizen  arm'd.     Good  day ; 
good  day.  [Exit  AVhite. 

Bagenhall.    One  of  much  outdoor  blus- 
ter. 
Hovxird.    For  all  that, 
Most  honest,  brave,  and  skilful  ;  and  his 

wealth 
A  fountain  of  perennial  alms  —  his  fault 
So  thoroughly  to  believe  in  his  own  self. 
Bagenhall.  Yet  thoroughly  to  believe 
in  one's  own  self, 
So  one's  own  self  be  thorough,  were  to  do 
Great  things,  my  lord. 

Hovxird.  It  may  be 

Bagenhall.  I  have  lieard 

One  of  your  council  fleer  and  jeer  at  him. 
Howard.   The  nursery-cocker'd  child 
will  jeer  at  aught 
That  may  seem  strange  beyond  his  nurs- 
ery. 
The  statesman  that  shall  jeer  and  fleer  at 

men, 
Makes  enemies  for  himself  and  for  his 

king  ; 
And  if  he  jeer  not  seeing  the  true  man 
B  'hind  his  folly,  he  is  thrice  the  fool  ; 
And  if  he  see  the  man  and  still  will  jeer, 
He  is  child  and  fool,  and  traitor  to  the 

State. 
Who  is  he  ?     Let  me  shun  him. 

B'lgenhcdl.  Nay,  my  Lord, 

He  is  danm'd  enough  already. 

Howard.  I  must  set 

The  guard  at  Ludgate.     Fare  you  well. 

Sir  Ralph. 

Bagenhall.  "Who  knows?"    I  am  for 

England.     But  who  knows. 

That  knows  the  Queen,  the  Spaniard, 

and  the  Pope, 
Whether  I  be  for  Wyatt,  or  the  Queen  ? 
[Exeiint. 

SCENE  III. —LONDON  BRIDGE. 

Enter  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  Brett. 

Wyatt.  Brett,  when  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk moved  against  us 

Thou  criedst  "a  Wyatt,"  and  flying  to 
our  side 

Left  his  all  bare,  for  which  I  love  thee, 
Brett. 

Have  for  thine  asking  aught  that  I  can 
give,  _ 

For  thro'  thine  help  we  are  come  to  Lon- 
don Bridge  ; 


But  how  to  cross  it  balks  me.    I  fear  we 

cannot. 
Brett.    Nay,    hardly,    save   by    boat, 

swimming,  or  wings. 
Wyatt.    Last  night  I  climb'd  into  the 

gate-house,  Brett, 
And  scared  the  gray  old  porter  and  his 

wife. 
And  then  I  crept  along  the  gloom  and 

saw 
They   had   hewn  the  drawbridge  down 

into  the  river. 
It  roU'd  as  black   as   death  ;  and  that 

same  tide 
Which,  coming  with  our  coming,  seem'd 

to  smile 
And  sparkle  like  our  fortune  as   thou 

saidest, 
Ran  sunless  down,  and  moan'd  against 

the  piers. 
But  o'er  the  chasm  I  saw  Lord  William 

Howard 
By  torchlight,  and  his  guard  ;  four  guns 

gaped  at  me. 
Black,  silent  mouths  :  had  Howard  spied 

me  there 
And  made  them  speak,  as  well  he  might 

have  done, 
Their  voice  had  left  me  none  to  tell  you 

this. 
What  shall  we  do  ? 

Brett.  On  somehow.     To  go  back 

Were  to  lose  all. 

Wyatt.  On  over  London  Bridge 

We  cannot  :  stay  we  cannot  ;  there  is 

ordnance 
On  the  White  Tower  and  on  the  Devil's 

Tower, 
And  pointed  full  at  Southwark  ;  we  must 

round 
By  Kingston  Bridge. 
Brett.  "Ten  miles  about. 

Wyatt.  Ev'n  so. 

But  I  have  notice  from  our  partisans 
Within   the   city  that   they  will  stand 

by  us 
If  Ludgate  can  be  reach'd  by  dawn  to- 
morrow. 

Enter  one  of  Wyatt's  men. 

Man.  Sir  Thomas,  I  've  found  this 
paper,  pray  your  worship  read  it  ;  I 
know  not  my  letters  ;  the  old  priests 
taught  me  nothing. 

Wyatt  (reads).  "Whosoever  will  ap. 
prehend  the  traitor  Thomas  Wyatt  shall 
have  a  hundred  pounds  for  reward." 


QUEEN   MARY. 


489 


Man.    Is  that  it  ?    That 's  a  big  lot 

of  luoney. 
Wtjatt.    Ay,  ay,  my  friend  ;  not  read 
it  ?  't  is  not  written 
Half  plain  enough.     Give  me  a  piece  of 
paper  ! 
[  Writes  "  Thomas  Wyatt  "  large. 
There,  any  man  can  read  that. 

[Sticks  it  in  his  cap. 
Brett.  But  that 's  foolhardy. 

JVyatt.    No !    boldness,    which    will 
give  my  followers  boldness. 

Enter  Man  with  a  prisoner. 

Man.    We  found  him,  your  worshi]), 
a    plundering  o'    Bishop   Winchester's 
house  ;  he  says  he  's  a  poor  gentleman. 
Wijott.    Gentleman,  a  thief !    Go  hang 
him.     Shall  we  make 
Those  that  we  come  to  serve  our  sharp- 
est foes  'i 
Brett.    Sir  Thomas  — 
Wyatt.  Hang  him,  I  say. 

Brett.    Wyatt,  but  now  you  promised 

me  a  boon. 
Wyatt.    Ay,  and  1  warrant  this  fine 

fellow's  life. 
Brett.    Ev'n  so  ;  he  was  my  neighbor 
once  in  Kent. 
He  's  poor  enough,  has  drunk  and  gam- 
bled out 
All  that  he  had,  and  gentleman  he  was. 
We  have  been  glad  together  ;  let  liim 
live. 
Wyatt.    He  has  gambled  for  his  life, 
and  lost,  he  hangs. 
No,  no,  my  Avord  's  my  word.    Take  th}' 

poor  gentleman  ! 
Gamble  thyself  at  once  out  of  my  sight, 
Or  I  will   dig  thee   with   my   dagger. 

Away  ! 
Women  and  children  ! 

Enter  a  Crowd  of  Women  and  Children. 

First  Wovian.  0  Sir  Thomas,  Sir 
Thomas,  pray  you  go  away,  Sir  Thomas, 
or  you  '11  make  the  White  Tower  a  black 
'un  for  us  this  blessed  day.  He  '11  be 
the  death  on  us  ;  and  you  '11  .set  the 
Divil's  Tower  a-spitting,  and  he'll  smash 
all  our  hits  o'  things  worse  than  Philip 
o'  Spain. 

Second  Woman.  Don't  ye  now  go  to 
think  that  we  be  for  Philip  o'  Spain. 

Third  Woman.  No,  we  know  that 
ye  be  come  to  kill  the  Queen,  and  we  '11 
pray  for  you  all  on  our  bended  knees.    But 


o'  God's  mercy  don't  ye  kill  the  Queen 
here.  Sir  Thomas  ;  look  ye,  here  's  little 
Dickon,  and  little  Robin,  and  little 
Jenny  —  though  she  's  but  a  side-coush; 
—  and  all  on  our  knees,  we  pray  you  to 
kill  the  Queen  farther  ofl".  Sir  Thotnas. 

Wyatt.    My  friends,  1  have  not  come 
to  kill  the  Queen 
Or  heie  or  there  :  I  come  to  save  you  all, 
And  1  '11  go  farther  off. 

Crowd.  Thanks,  Sir  Thomas,  we  be 
beholden  to  you,  and  we  '11  pray  for  j'ou 
on  our  bended  knees  till  our  lives'  end. 

Wyatt.    Be  hapj)}',  I  am  your  liiend. 

To  Kingston,  forward  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  ROOM  IN  THE  GATE- 
HOUSE OF  WESTMINSTER  PALACE. 

Mary,  Alice,  Gardiner,  Renakd,  La- 
dies. 

Alice.    O  madam,  if  Lord  Pembroke 

should  be  false  ? 
Mary.   No,  girl ;  most  brave  and  loyal, 
brave  and  loyal. 
Hisbreaking  with  Northumberland  broke 

Northumberland. 
At  the  park  gate   he   hovers  with  our 

guards. 
These  Kenti.sh  ploughmen  cannot  break 
the  guards. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.    Wyatt,  your  Grace,  hath 
broken  thro'  the  guards 
And  gone  to  Ludgate. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  I  much  fear 

That  all  is  lost  ;  but  we  can  save  your 

Grace. 
The  river  still  is  free.    I  do  beseech  you. 
There  yet  is  time,  take  boat  and  pass  to 
Windsor. 
Mary.    I  pass  to  Windsor  and  I  lose 

my  crown. 
Gardiner.    Pass,  then,    I   pray   youi- 

Highness,  to  the  Tower. 
Mary.    I  shall  but  be  their  prisoner 

in  the  Tower. 
Cries  {without).    The  traitor!  treason! 

Pembroke  ! 
Ladies.  Ti'eason  !  treason  ! 

Mary.    Peace. 
False   to  Northumberland,    is  he    false 

to  mef 
Bear  witness,  Eenard,  that  I  live  and 
die 


490 


QUEEN   MARY. 


The  true  and  faitliful  bride  of  Philip  — 

A  sound 
Of  feet  and  voices  thickening  hither  — 

blows  — 
Hark,  there  is  battle  at  the  palace  gates, 
And  I  will  out  upon  the  gallery. 

Ladies.    No,  no,  your  Grace;  see  there 

the  arrows  Hying. 
Mary.    I  am  Harry's  daughter,  Tudoi-, 

and  not  fear. 

[Goes  out  on  the  gallery. 
The  guards  are  all  driven  in,  skulk  into 

corners 
Like  rabbits  to  their  holes.     A  gracious 

guard 
Truly  ;  shame  on  them  they  Iiave  shut 

the  gates  ! 

Enter  Sir  Robert  Southwell. 

SoutJmell.    The  porter,    please   your 
Grace,  hath  shut  the  gates 
On  friend  and  foe.    Your  gentlemen-at- 
arms. 
If  this  be  not  your  Grace's  order,  cry 
To  have  the  gates  set  wide  again,  and 

they 
With  their  good  battle-axes  will  do  you 

right 
Against  all  traitors. 

Mary.    They  are  the  flowerof  England  ; 
set  the  gates  wide. 

[Exit  Southwell. 

Enter  Courtenat. 

Courtenay.    All  lost,  all  lost,  all  yield- 
ed ;  a  barge,  a  barge, 
The  Queen  must  to  the  Tower. 

Mary.  Whence  come  you,  sir  ? 

Courtenay.    From  Charing  Cross ;  the 
rebels  broke  us  there. 
And   I  sped  hither  with  what  haste  I 

might 
To  save  my  royal  cousin. 

Mary.  Where  is  Pembroke  ? 

Coitrtenay.    I  left  him  somewhere  in 

the  thick  of  it. 
Mary.    Left  him  and  fled  ;  and  thou 
that  wouldst  be  King, 
And  hast  nor  heart  nor  honor.     I  my- 
self 
Will  down   into  the  battle   and   there 

bide 
The  upshot  of  my  quarrel,  or  die  with 

those 
That  are  no  cowards  and  no  Courtenays. 
Courtcna]/.    I  do  not  love  your  Grace 
should  call  me  coward. 


Enter  another  MESSENGER. 
Messenger.    Over,     your     Grace,     all 
crush' d  ;  the  brave  Lord  William 
Thrust  him  from  Ludgate,  and  the  trai- 
tor flying 
To  Temple  Bar,  there  by   Sir  Maurice 

Berkeley 
Was  taken  prisoner. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him: 

Messenger.    'T  is    said    he     told    Sir 
Maurice  there  was  one 
Cognizant  of  this,  and  party  thereunto, 
My  Lord  of  Devon. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him  I 

Courtenay.    0  la,  the  Tower,  the  Tow- 
er, always  the  Tower, 
I  shall  grow  into   it  — ^  1   shall   be  the 
Tower. 
Mary.    Your  Lordship  may  not  have 
so  long  to  wait. 
Remove  him  ! 

Courtenay.    La,  to  whistle  out  my  life, 
And  carve  my  coat  upon  the  walls  again  ! 
[Exit  Courtenay  guarded. 
Messenger.    Also  this  Wyatt  did  con- 
fess the  Princess 
Cognizant  thereof,  and  party  thereunto. 
Mary.    What,  whom  — •  whom  did  you 

say  ? 
Messenger.    Elizabeth, 
Your  Royal  sister. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  her! 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet  and  I  am  Queen. 
[G.\HDiNER  and  her 'Lh.Di^.s,  kneel  to 
her. 
Gardiner  {rising).    There  let  them  lie, 
your  footstool  !     {Aside.)    Can  I 
strike 
Elizabeth  ?  —  not  now  and  save  the  life 
Of  Devon  :  if  I  save  him,  he  and  his 
Are  bound  to  me  —  may  strike  hereafter. 

(Aloud.)     Madam, 
What  Wyatt  said,  or  what  they  said  he 

said. 
Cries  of  the  moment  and  the  street  — 
Mary.  He  said  it. 

Gardiner.    Your  courts  of  justice  will 

determine  that. 
Renard  {advancing).    I  trust  by  this 
your  Highness  will  allow 
Some   spice   of  wisdom  in    my  telling 

you. 
When  last  we  talk'd,  that  Philip  would 

not  come 
Till  Guildford  Dudley  and  the  Duke  of 

Suffolk 
And  Lady  Jane  had  left  us. 


QUEEN    MARY. 


491 


Mary.  They  shall  die. 

Menard.    And  }^our  so  loving  sister  ? 

Mary.  She  shall  die. 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet,  and  Philip  King. 

[^Exeiint. 


ACT   III. 

SCEIS^E  I.  — THE  CONDUIT   IN 
GRACE  CHURCH. 

Painted  with  the  Nine  Worthies,  among 
them  King  Henry  VIII.  holding  a  book, 
on  it  inscribed  "  Verbum  Dei." 

Enter  SiR  Ralph   Bagenhall  and  Sir 
Thomas  Stafford. 

Bagenhall.    A  hundred  here  and  hun- 
dreds hang'd  in  Kent. 
The  tigress  had  unsheath'd  her  nails  at 

last, 
And  Renard  and  the  Chancellor. shai-pen'd 

them. 
In  every  London  .street  a  gibbet  stood. 
They  are  down  to-day.     Here  by  this 

house  was  one  ; 
The  traitor  husband  dangled  at  the  door, 
And  when  the  ti'aitor  wife  came  out  for 

bread 
To  still  the  petty  treason  there  within. 
Her  cap  would  brush  his  heels. 

Stafford.  It  is  Sir  Ralph, 

And   muttering  to   himself  as   hereto- 
fore. 
Sir,  see  you  aught  up  yonder  ? 

Bagenhall.  I  miss  something. 

The  tree  that  only  bears  dead  fruit  is 
gone. 
Stafford.    What  tree,  sir  ? 
Bagenhall.    Well,  the  tree  in  Virgil, 
sir. 
That  bears  not  its  own  apples. 

Stafford.  What  !  the  gallows  ? 

Bagenhall.    Sir,  this  dead  fruit  was 
ripening  overmuch, 
And  had  to  be  removed  lest  living  Spain 
Should  sicken  at  dead  England. 

Stafford.  Not  so  dead, 

But  that  a  shock  may  rouse  her. 

Baqenhall.  I  believe 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford  ? 

Stafford.  I  am  ill  disguised. 

Bagenliall.    Well,  are  vou  not  in  peril 

here  ? 
Stafford.       I  think  so. 
I  came  to  feel  the  pulse  of  England, 
whether 


It  beats  hard  at  this  marriage.     Did  you 
see  it  ? 
Bagenhall.    Stafford,  I  am  a  sad  man 
and  a  serious. 
Far  liefer  had  I  in  my  country  hall 
Been  reading  some  old  book,  with  mine 

old  hound 
Couch'd  at  my  hearth,   and  mine  old 

flask  of  wine 
Beside  me,  than  have  seen  it,  yet  I  saw 
it. 
Stafford.    Good,  was  it  splendid  ? 
Bagenhall.    Ay,  if  Dukes,  and  Earls, 
And  Counts,  and  sixty  Spanish  cavaliers. 
Some  six  or  seven  Bishops,  diamonds, 

peails, 
That  royal  commonplace  too,  cloth  of 

gold, 
Could  make  it  so. 

Stafford.    And  what  was  Mary's  dress? 
Bagenhall.    Good  faith,  I  was  too  sorry 
for  the  woman 
To  mark  the  dress.     She  wore  red  shoes  ! 
Stafford.  Red  shoes  ! 

Bagenhall.    Scarlet,  as  if  her  feet  were 
wa.sh'd  in  blood. 
As  if  she  had  waded  in  it. 

Stafford.  Were  your  eyes 

So  bashful  that  you  look'd  no  higher  ? 

Bagenhall.  A  diamond, 

And  Philip's  gift,  as  proof  of  Philip's 

love. 
Who  hath  not  any  for  any,  —  tho'  a  true 

one. 
Blazed  false  upon  her  heart. 

Stafford.        But  this  proud  Prince  — 
Bagenhall.   Nay,    he    is   King,    you 
know,  the  King  of  Naples. 
The  father  ceded  Naples,  that  the  son 
Being  a  King,  might  wed  a  Queen  —  0 

he 
Flamed   in    brocade  —  white   satin   his 

trunk  hose, 
Inwrought  with  silver,  —  on  his  neck  a 

collar. 
Gold,   thick   with  diamonds  ;    hanging 

down  from  this 
The    Golden    Fleece  —  and   round    his 

knee,  misplaced. 
Our  English  Garter,  studded  with  great 

emeralds. 
Rubies,  I  know  not  what.     Have  you 

had  enough 
0/  all  this  gear  ? 

Stafford.    Ay,  since  you  hate  the  tell- 
ing it. 
How  look'd  the  Queen  ? 


492 


QUEEN   MARY. 


BagcnliaU.      No  fairer  for  her  jewels. 

And  I  could  see  that  as  the  new-made 
couple 

Came  from  the  Minster,  moving  side  by 
side 

Beneath  one  canopy,  ever  and  anon 

Slie  cast  on  him  a  vassal  smile  of  love. 

Which  Philip  with  a  glance  of  some  dis- 
taste. 

Or  so  methought,  return' d.     I  may  be 
wrong,  sir. 

This  marriage  will  not  hold. 

Stafford.  I  think  with  you. 

The  King  of  France  will  help  to  break  it. 
Bagenhall.  France ! 

We  once  had  half  of  France,  and  hurl'd 
our  battles 

Into  the  heart  of  Spain  ;  but  England 
now 

Is  but  a  ball  chnck'd  between  France 
and  Spain 

His  in  whose  hand  she  drops  ;  Harry  of 
Bolingbroke 

Had  holpen  Richard's  tottering  throne 
to  stand. 

Could  Harry  have  foreseen  that  all  our 
nobles 

Would  perish  on  the  civil  slaughter-field, 

And    leave    the    people   naked   to    the 
crown. 

And  the  crown  naked  to  the  people  ;  the 
crown 

Female,  too  !     Sir,  no  woman's  regimen 

(Jan  save  us.     We  are  fallen,  and  as  I 
think. 

Never  to  rise  again. 

Stafford.    You  are  too  black -blooded. 

I  'd  make  a  move  myself  to  hinder  that : 

I   know   some   lusty  fellows    there   in 
France. 
Bagenhall.    You  would  but  make  us 
weaker,  Thomas  Stafford. 

Wyatt  was  a  good  soldier,  yet  he  fail'd, 

And  strengthen'd  Philip. 

Stafford.  Did  not  his  last  breath 

Clear  Courtenay  and  the  Princess  from 
the  charge 

Of  being  his  co-rebels  ? 

Bagenhall.  Ay,  but  then 

What  such  a  one  as  Wyatt  says  is  noth- 
ing : 

We  have  no  men  among  us.     The  new 
Lords 

Ai'e  quieted  with  their  sop  of  Abbey- 
lands, 

And  ev'n  before  the  Queen's  face  Gardi- 
ner buys  them 


With  Philip's  gold.     All  greed,  no  faith, 
no  courage ! 

Why,   ev'n  the   haughty  prince.    Nor- 
thumbei'land. 

The  leader  of  our  Keformation,  knelt 

And  blubber'd  like  a  lad,  and  on  the 
scaffold 

Recanted,  and  resold  himself  to  Rome. 
Stafford.    I  swear  you  do  your  country 
wrong,  Sir  Ralph. 

I  know  a  set  of  exiles  over  there. 

Dare-devils,  that  would  eat  fire  and  spit 
it  out 

At  Phili]j"s  beard  :  they  pillage  Spain 
already. 

The  French  king  winks  at  it.     An  hour 
will  come 

When  they  will  sweep  her  from  the  seas. 
No  men  ? 

Did  not  Lord  Suffolk  die  like  a  true 
man  ? 

Is  not    Lord  William    Howard  a  true 
man  ? 

Yea,  you  yourself,  altho'  3'ou  are  black- 
blooded  : 

And  I,  by  God,  believe  myself  a  man. 

Ay,  even  in  the  church  there  is  a  man  — 

Cranmer. 

Fly,  would  he  not,  when  all  men  bade 
him  tly. 

And  what  a  letter  he  wrote  against  the 
Pope  ! 

There  's  a  brave  man,  if  any. 

Bagenhall.  Ay  ;  if  it  hold. 

Crowd  {coming  on).    God  save  their 

Graces  ! 
Stafford.  Bagenhall,  I  see 

The  Tudor  green  and  white.  (  Trumpets.) 
They  are  coming  now. 

And  here 's  a  crowd  as  thick  as  herring- 
shoals. 
Bagenhall.    Be  limpets  to  this  pillar, 
or  we  are  torn 

Down  the  strong  wa\'e  of  brawlers. 
C'rou'd.    God  save  their  Graces. 
[Procession   of  Trumpeters,  Jarelin 
men,  etc.  ;  then  Spanish  and  Flem- 
ish Nobles  intermingled. 
Stafford.    Worth  seeing,   Bagenhall ! 
These  black  dog-Dons 

Garb  themselves  bravely.     Who  's  the 
long-face  there. 

Looks  very  Spain  of  very  Spain  ? 
Bagenhall.  The  Duke 

Of  Alva,  an  iron  soldier. 

Stafford.  And  the  Dutchman, 

Now  laughing  at  some  jest  ? 


QUEEN   MARY. 


493 


Bagenhall.  William  of  Oi'ange, 

William  the  Silent. 

Stafford.      Why  do  they  call  him  so  ? 
Bagenhall.    He  keeps,  they  say,  some 
secret  that  may  cost 
Philip  his  life. 
Stafford.    But  then  he  looks  so  merry. 
Bagenhall.    I    cannot   tell   you   wliy 
they  call  him  so. 
{Tlie  King  and  Quken  pass,  attended 
by  Peers  of  the  Realm,  Officers  of 
State,  etc.     Cannon  shot  off. 

Croivd.    Philip  and  ]\lary,  Philip  and 
Mary. 
Long  live  tlie  King  and  Queen,  Philip 
and  Mary. 
Stafford.    They   smile   as   if  content 

with  one  anotlier. 
Bagenhall.    A  smile  abroad  is  oft  a 
scowl  at  home. 
[KiNGancZ  Queen /)a5son.  Procession. 

First  Citizen.  1  thought  this  Philip  had 
been  one  of  those  black  devils  of  Spain, 
but  he  hath  a  yellow  beard. 

Second  Citizen.    Not  red  like  Iscariot's. 

First  Citizen.  Like  a  carrot's,  as  thou 
sayst,  and  English  carrot 's  better  than 
Spanish  licorice  ;  but  1  thought  he  was 
a  beast. 

Third  Citizen.  Certain  I  had  heard 
that  every  Spaniard  carries  a  tail  like  a 
devil  under  his  trunk  hose. 

Tailor.  Ay,  but  see  what  trunk  hoses  ! 
Lord  !  they  be  fine ;  I  never  stitch'd 
none  such.  They  make  amends  for  the 
ti*ils. 

Fourth  Citizen.  Tut !  every  Spanish 
priest  will  tell  you  that  all  English  her- 
etics have  tails. 

Fifth  Citizen.  Death  and  the  Devil  — 
if  he  find  I  have  one  — 

Fourth  Citizen.  Lo  !  thou  hast  call'd 
them  up  !  here  they  come  —  a  pale  horse 
for  Death  and  Gardiner  for  the  Devil . 

Enter  Gardiner  {tumincf  back  from  the 

procession). 

Gardiner.    Knave,  wilt  thou  wear  thy 

cap  before  the  Queen  ? 
Man.    My  Lord,  I  stand  so  squeezed 
among  the  crowd 
I  cannot  lift  my  hands  imto  my  head. 
Gardiner.    Knock  off  his  cap  there, 
some  of  you  about  him  ! 
See  there  be  others  that  can  use  their 

hands. 
Thou  art  one  of  Wyatt's  men  ? 


Man.  No,  my  Lord,  na 

Gardiner.    Thy  name,  thou  knave  ? 
Man.  I  am  nobody,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner  {shouting).    God's  passion  ! 

knave,  thy  name  ? 
Man.  I  have  ears  to  hear. 

Gardiner.    Ay,  rascal,  if  1  leave  thee 
ears  to  hear. 
Find  out  his  name  and  bring  it  me  {to 
Attcndaid). 
Attendant.  Ay,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.    Knave,    thou    slialt    lose 
thine  ears  and  find  thy  tongue. 
And  shalt  be  thankful  if  I  leave  thee  that. 
[Coming  before  the  Conduit. 
The  conduit  painted  —  the  nine  worthies 

-ay! 
But   then  what 's  here  ?     King  Harry 

with  a  scroll. 
Ha  —  Verbum  Dei  —  verbum  —  word  of 

God! 
God's  passion  !  do  j'ou  know  the  knave 
that  painted  it  ? 
Attendant.    I  do,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.       Tell  him  to  paint  it  out, 
And  put  some  fresh  device  in  lieu  of 

it  — 
A  pair  of  gloves,  a  pair  of  gloves,  sir ; 

ha? 
There  is  no  heresy  there. 

Attendant.  I  will,  my  Lord. 

The  man  shall  paint  a  pair  of  gloves. 

I  am  sure 
(Knowing  the  man)  he  wrought  it  igno- 

rantly. 
And  not  from  any  malice. 

Gardiner.  Word  of  God 

In  English  !  over  this  the  brainless  loons 
That  cannot  spell  Esaias  from  St.  Paul, 
Make  themselves  drunk  and  mad,  fly 

out  and  fiare 
Into  rebellions.     I  '11  have  their  Bibles 

burnt. 
The  Bible  is  the  priest's.     Ay  !  fellow, 

what  ! 
Stand  staring  at  me  !  shout,  you  gaping 
rogue. 
Man.    I  have,  my  Lord,  shouted  till 

1  am  hoarse. 
Gardinet.    What  hast  thou  shouted, 

knave  ? 
Man.  Long  live  Queen  Mary. 

Gardiner.     Knave,     there     be     two. 
There  be  both  King  and  Queen, 
Philip  and  Mary.     Shout. 

Man.  Nay,  but,  my  Lord, 

The  Queen  comes  first,  Maiy  and  Philip, 


494 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Gardiner.  Shout,  then, 

Mary  and  Philip. 
Man.  Mary  and  Philip  ! 

Gardiner.  Now, 

Thou    hast   shouted   for   thy   pleasure, 

shout  for  mine  ! 
Philip  and  Mary  ! 

Man.  Must  it  be  so,  my  Lord  ? 

Gardiner.    Ay,  knave. 
Man.  Philip  and  Mary. 

Gardiner.  I  distrust  thee. 

Thine  is  a  half  voice  and  a  lean  assent. 
What  is  thy  name  ? 

Man.  Sanders. 

Gardiner.  What  else  ? 

Man.  Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner.    Where  dost  thou  live  ? 
Man.  In  Cornhill. 

Gardiner.  Where,  knave,  where  ? 
Man.  Sign  of  the  Talbot. 
Gardiner.  Come  to  nie  to-morrow.  — 
Rascal  !  —  this  land  is  like  a  hill  of  fire. 
One  crater  opens  when  another  shuts. 
But  so  I  get  the  laws  against  the  heretic, 
Spite  of  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 

Howard, 
And  others  of  our  Parliament,  revived, 
I  will  show  fire  on  my  side  —  stake  and 

fire  — 
Sharp  work  and  short.     The  knaves  are 

easily  cow'd. 
Follow  their  Majesties. 

\^Exit.      The  crowd  following. 
Bagenhali.  As  pioud  as  Becket. 

Stafford.    You  would  not  have  him 

murder'd  as  Becket  was  ? 
Bagenhali.    No  —  murder  fathers  mur- 
der :  but  I  say 
There  is  no  man  —  there  was  one  woman 

with  us  — 
It  was  a  sin  to  love  her  married,  dead 
I  cannot  choose  but  love  her. 

Stafford.  Lady  Jane  ? 

Crowd   {going   off).    God   save    their 

Graces. 
Stafford.  Did  you  see  her  die  ? 

Bagenhali.    No,     no  ;    her    innocent 
blood  had  blinded  me. 
You  call  me  too  black-blooded  —  true 

enough 
Her  dark  dead  blood  is  in  my  lieart  with 

mine. 
If  ever  I  cry  out  against  the  Pope 
Her  dark  dead  blood  that  ever  moves 

with  mine 
Will  stir  the  living  tongue  and  make 
the  ciy. 


Stafford.    Yet  doubtless  you  can  tell 

me  how  she  died  ? 
Bagenhali.    Seventeen  —  and     knew 

eight  languages  —  in  music 
Peerless  —  her  needle  perfect,  and  hei 

learning 
Beyond  the  churchmen  ;  yet  so  meek, 

so  modest. 
So  wife-like  humble  to  the  trivial  boy 
Mismatch'd  with  her  for  policy  !    I  have 

heard 
She  would  not  take  a  last  farewell  of 

him. 
She  fear'd  it  might  unman  him  for  his 

end. 
She  could  not  be  unmann'd  —  no,  nor 

outwoman'd  — 
Seventeen  —  a  rose  of  grace  ! 
Girl  never  breathed  to  rival  such  a  rose  ; 
Rose  never  blew  that  equall'd  such  a 

bud. 
Stafford.    Pray  you  go  on. 
Bagenhali.    She  came  upon  the  scaf- 
fold. 
And  said  she  was  condemn'd  to  die  for 

treason  ; 
She  had  but  follow'd  the  device  of  those 
Her  nearest  kin  :  she  thought  they  knew 

the  laws. 
But  for  herself,  she  knew  but  little  law, 
And  nothing  of  the  titles  to  the  crown  ; 
She  had  no  desire  for  that,  and  wrung 

her  hands, 
And  trusted  God  would  save  her  thro' 

the  blood 
Of  .Jesus  Christ  alone. 

Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bagenhali.    Then  knelt  and  said  the 

Miserere  Mei  — 
But  all   in   English,    mark   you ;   rose 

again. 
And,  when  the  headsman  pray'd  to  be 

forgiven, 
Said,  "  Yon  will  give  me  my  true  crown 

at  last, 
But  do  it  quickly  "  ;  then  all  wept  but 

she. 
Who  changed  not  color  when  she  saw 

the  block. 
But  ask'd  him,  childlike:  "Will  you 

take  it  off 
Before  1  lay  me  down"?     "No,  mad- 
am," he  said. 
Gasping  ;  and  when  her  iimocent  eyes 

were  bound, 
She,  with  her  poor  blind  hands  feeling 

—  "  where  is  it ' 


QUEEN    MARY. 


495 


Where  is  it  ? "  —  You  must  fancy  that 

which  follow'd, 
If  you  have  heart  to-do  it ! 

Crowd  {in   the   distance).    God    save 

their  Graces  ! 
Stafford.   Their-Graces,  our  disgraces ! 

God  confound  them  ! 
Why,   she 's  grown   bloodier  !  when    I 

last  was  here, 
This  was  against  her  conscience  —  would 

be  murder  ! 
Bagenhall.    The  "Thou  shalt  do  no 

murder,"  which  God's  hand 
"Wrote  on  her  conscience,  Mary  rubb'd 

out  pale  — 
She  could  not  make  it  white  —  and  over 

that. 
Traced  in  the  blackest  text  of  Hell  — 

"Thou  shalt!" 
And  sign'd  it  —  Mary  ! 

Stafford.  Philip  and  the  Pope 

Must  have  sign'd  too.     1  hear  this  Leg- 
ate 's  coming 
To  bring  us  absolution  from  the  Pope. 
The  Lords  and  Commons  will  bow  down 

before  him  — 
You  are  of  the  house  ?  what  will  you 

do.  Sir  Ralph  ? 
Bagcnhnll.    And    why   should    I    be 

bolder  than  the  rest. 
Or  hon  ester  than  all  ? 

Stafford.  But,  sir,  if  I  — 

And  over  sea  they  say  this  state  of  yours 
Hath  no  more  mortise  than  a  tower  of 

cards  ; 
And  that  a  puff  would  do  it  —  then  if  I 
And  others  made  that  move  I  touch'd 

upon, 
Back'd  by  the  power   of  France,   and 

landing  here, 
Cam<i  with  a  sudden  splendor,  shout, 

and  .show, 
And  dazzled  men  and  deafen'd  by  some 

bright 
Loud  venture,  and  the  people  so  un- 
quiet — 
And  I  the  race  of  murder'd  Bucking- 
ham — 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  the  kingdom  — 

Sir,' 
I  trust  that  you  would  fight  along  with 

us. 
Bagenhall.    No  ;  you  would  fling  your 

lives  into  the  gulf. 
Stafford.    But  if  this  Philip,  as  he  's 

like  to  do, 
Left  Mary  a  wife-widow  here  alone, 


Set  up  a  viceroy,  sent  his  myriads  hither 
To  seize  upon  the  forts  and  fleet,  and 

make  us 
A   Spanish    province  ;    would   you    not 
fight  then? 
Bagenhall.    I    think    I    should    fight 

then. 
Stafford.       I  am  sure  of  it. 
Hist !  there  's  the  face  coming  on  here 

of  one 
Who  knows  me.      I   must  leave  you. 

Fare-  you  well, 
You  '11  hear  of  me  again. 

Bagenhall.  Upon  the  scaffold. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  II. —ROOM  IN  WHITEHALL 
PALACE. 

Mary.      Enter    Philip    and    Cardinal 
Pole. 

Pole.    Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena,  Bene- 

dicta  tu  in  mulieribus. 
Mary.    Loyal  and  royal  cousin,  hum- 
blest thanks. 

Had  you  a  pleasant  voyage  up  the  river  ? 
Pole.    We  had  your  royal  barge,  and 
that  same  chair. 

Or  rather  throne  of  purple,  on  the  deck. 

Our  silver  cross  sparkled  before  the  prow, 

The  ripples  twinkled  at  their  diamond- 
dance, 

The  boats  that  follow'd,  were  as  glow- 
ing-gay 

As  regal  gardens  ;  and  your  flocks  of 
swans. 

As  fair  and  white  as  angels  ;  and  j^our 
.shores 

Wore  in  mine  eyes  the  green  of  Para- 
dise. 

My   foreign    friends,    who   dream'd    us 
blanketed 

In  ever-closing  fog,  were  much  amazed 

To  find  as  fair  a  sun  as  might  have  flash'd 

Upon    their   Lake    of    Garda,    fire   the 
Thames  ; 

Our  voyage  by  sea  was  all  but  miracle  ; 

And  here  the  river  flowing  from  the  sea, 

Not  toward  it  (for  they  thought  not  of 
our  tides), 

Seem'd    as   a   happy   miracle   to   make 
glide  — • 

In  quiet  —  home  your  banish'd  coun- 
tryman. 
Mary.    We  heard  that  you  were  sick 

in  Flanders,  cousin. 
Pole.    A  dizziness. 


496 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Mary.    And    how   came   you    round 

again  ? 
Pole.    The    scarlet   thread   of   Rahab 

saved  her  life  ; 
And  mine,  a  little  letting  of  the  blood. 
Mary.    Well  ?  now  ? 
Pole.    Ay,    cousin,    as    the    heathen 

giant 
Had  but  to  touch  the  ground,  his  force 

return'd — 
Thus,  after  twenty  years  of  banishment. 
Feeling  my  native  land  beneath  my  foot, 
I   said  thereto  :    ' '  Ah,   native  land  of 

mine. 
Thou  art  much  beholden  to  this  foot  of 

mine. 
That  hastes  with  full  commission  from 

the  Pope 
To  absolve  thee  from  thy  guilt  of  heresy. 
Thou  hast  disgraced  me  and  attainted 

me, 
And  mark'd   me  ev'n   as  Cain,   and  I 

return 
As  Peter,  but  to  bless  thee:  make  me 

well." 
Methinks  the  good  land  heard  me,  for 

to-day 
My  heart  beats  twenty,  when  I  see  you, 

cousin. 
Ah,  gentle  cousin,  since  your  Herod's 

death, 
How  oft  hath  Peter  knock'd  at  ilary's 

gate  ! 
And  Mary  would  have  risen  and  let  him 

in, 
But,  Mary,  there  were  those  within  the 

house 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Mary.  True,  good  cousin  Pole  ; 

And  there  wei-e  also  those  without  the 

house 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Pole.  I  believe  so,  cousin. 

State-policy  and  church-policy  are  con- 
joint, 
But  Janus-faces  looking  diverse  ways. 
I  fear  the  Emperor  much  misvalued  me. 
But  all  is  well  ;  't  was  ev'n  the  will  of 

God, 
Who,  waiting  till  the  time  had  ripened, 

now. 
Makes  me  his  mouth  of  holy  greeting. 

"  Hail, 
Daughter  of  God,  and  saver  of  the  faith, 
Sit  lienedictus  fructus  ventris  tui !  " 
Mary.    Ah,  heaven  ! 
Poh.  Unwell,  your  grace  ? 


Mary.  No,  cousin,  happy  — 

Happy  to  see  you  ;  never  yet  so  happy 
Since  I  was  crown' d. 

Pole.  Sweet  cousin,  you  forget 

That  long  low  minster  where  you  gave 

your  hand 
To  this  great  Catholic  King. 

Phili]}.  Well  said,  Lord  Legate. 

Mary.    Nay,  not  well  said ;  I  thought 
of  you,  my  liege, 
Ev'n  as  I  spoke. 

Philip.    Ay,  Madam  ;  my  Lord  Paget 
Waits   to  present   our  Council  to  the 

Legate. 
Sit  down  here,  all ;  Madam,  between  us 
you. 
Pole.    Lo,  now  you  are  enclosed  with 
boards  of  cedar. 
Our  little  sister  of  tlie  Song  of  Songs  ! 
You  are  doubly  fenced  and  shielded  sit- 
ting here 
Between  the  two  most  high-set  thrones 

on  earth. 
The  Emperor's  highness  happily_  sym- 

boll'd  by 
The   King  your   husband,    the    Pope's 

Holiness 
By  mine  own  self. 

Mary.         True,  cousin,  I  am  happy. 
When  will  you  that  we  summon  both 

our  houses 
To  take  this  absolution  from  your  lips, 
And  be  regather'd  to  the  Papal  fold  ? 
Pole.    I  n  Britain's  calenda  r  the  bright- 
est day 
Beheld  our  rough  forefathers  break  their 

Gods, 
And  clasp  the  faith  in  Christ ;  but  after 

that 
Might  not  St.  Andrew's  be  her  happiest 
day? 
Mary.    Then  these  shall  meet  upon 
St.  Andrew's  day. 

Enter  Paget,  wlio  presents  the  Council 
Dumb  show. 

Pole.    I  am  an  old  man  wearied  witl 
my  journey, 
Ev'n  with  my  joy.     Permit  me  to  with- 
draw. 
To  Lambeth  ? 

Philip.    Ay,     Lambeth    has     oustetl 
Cranmer. 
It  was  not  meet  the  heretic  swine  -should 

live 
In  Lambeth. 
Mary.     There  or  anywhere,  or  at  all. 


QUEEN   MARY. 


497 


Philip.    We  have  had   it  swept  and 

garnish'd  after  him. 
Pole.    Xot   for   the  seven   devils    to 

enter  in  ? 
Philip.    No,  for  we  trust  they  parted 

in  the  swine. 
Pole.    True,  and  I  am  the  Angel  of 
the  Pope. 
Farewell,  your  Graces. 

Philip.  Nay,  not  here  —  to  me  ; 

I  will  go  with  you  to  the  waterside. 
Pole.    Not    be    my    Charon    to    the 

counter  side  ? 
Philip.    No,    my    Lord    Legate,    the 

Lord  Chancellor  goes. 
Pole.    And  unto  no  dead  world  ;  but 
Lambeth  palace. 
Henceforth  a  centre  of  the  living  faith. 
[Exeunt  Philip,  Pole,  Paget,  etc. 
Matiet  Mart. 
Mary.    He   hath  awaked !    he    hath 
awaked  ! 
He  stirs  within  the  darkness ! 
Oh,  Philip,  husband  !  now  thy  love  to 

mine 
Will  cling  more  close,  and  those  bleak 

manners  thaw. 
That  make  me  shamed  and  tongue-tied 

in  my  love. 
The  second  Prince  of  Peace  — 
The  great  unborn  defender  of  the  Faith, 
Who  will  avenge  me  of  mine  enemies  — 
He  comes,  and  my  star  rises. 
The  .stormy  Wyatts  and  Northumber- 

lands, 
The  proud  ambitions  of  Elizabeth, 
And  all  her  fieriest  partisans  —  are  pale 
Before  my  star ! 
The  light  of  this  new  learning  wanes 

and  dies : 
The  ghosts  of  Luther  and  Zuinglius  fade 
Into  the  deathless  hell  which   is  their 

doom 
Before  my  star  ! 
His  sceptre  shall  go  forth  from  Ind  to 

Ind  ! 
His  sword  shall  hew  the  heretic  peoples 

down  ! 
His  faith  shall  clothe  the  world  that 

will  be  his. 
Like  universal  air  and  sunshine  !    Open, 
Ye   everlasting   gates !      The    King    is 

here  !  — 
My  star,  my  son  ! 

Ihiter  Philip,  Duke  of  Alva,  etc 

Oh,  Philip,  come  AA'ith  me  ; 


Good  news  have  I  to  tell  you,  news  to 

make 
Both  of  us  happy  —  ay  the  Kingdom 

too. 
Nay  come  with  me  —  one  moment ; 

Philip  {to  Alva).        More  than  that; 
There  was  one  here  of  late  —  William 

the  Silent 
They  call  him  —  he  is  free  enough  in 

talk, 
But  tells  me  nothing.     You  will  be,  we 

trust. 
Some  time  the  viceroy  of  those  prov- 
inces— 
He  must  deserve  his  surname  better. 

Alva.  Ay,  sir ; 

Inheiit  the  Great  Silence. 

Philip.  True  ;  the  provinces 

Are  hard  to  rule  and  must  be  hardly 

ruled  ; 
Jlost  fruitful,  yet,  indeed,  an  empty  rind, 
All  hollow'd  out  with  stinging  heresies ; 
And  for  their  here.sies,  Alva,  they  will 

fight: 
You  must  break  them  or  they  break  you. 
Alva  {proudbj).  The  first. 

Philip.    Good  ! 
Well,  Madam,    this  new  happiness   of 

mine.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Three  Pages. 

First  Page.    News,  mates !  a  miracle ! 
a  miracle  !  news  ! 
The  bells  must  ring  ;  Te  Deums  must 

be  sung  ; 
The  Queen  hath  felt  the  motion  of  her 
babe  ! 
Second  Page.    Ay  ;  but  see  here  ! 
First  Page.  See  what  ? 

Second  Page.         This  paper,  Dickon. 
I    found    it   fluttering    at    the    palace 

gates  :  — 
"The  Queen  of  England  is  delivered  of 
a  dead  dec;  I " 
Third   Page.    These   are   the    things 

that  madden  her.     Fie  upon  it. 
First  Page.    Ay ;  but  I  hear  she  hath 
a  dropsy,  lad 
Or  a  high-dropsy,  as  the  doctors  call  it. 
Third.  Page.    Fie  on   her  dropsy,   so 
.she  have  a  dropsy  ! 
I  know  that  she  was  ever  sweet  to  me. 
First  Page.    Eor  thou  anil  thine  are 

Roman  to  the  core. 
Tliird  Page.    So  thou  and  thine  must 

be.     Take  heed  ! 
First  Page.  Not  L 


498 


QUEEN    MARY. 


And  whether  this  flash  of  news  be  false 

or  true, 
So  the  wine  run,  and  there  be  revelry, 
Content   am    I.     Let   all    the    steeples 

clash, 
Till  the  sun  dance,  as  ujion  Easter  Day. 
[Exeunt. 

SCENE    III.  —  GREAT    HALL    IN 
WHITEHALL. 

[At  the  far  end  a  dais.  On  this  three 
chairs,  two  under  one  canopy  fur  Mary 
and  Philip,  another  on  the  right  of 
these  for  Pole.  U'lUler  the  dais  on 
Pole's  side,  ranged  along  the  wall,  sit 
all  the  Spiritual  Peers,  and  along  the 
wall  opposite,  all  the  Temporal.  The 
Commons  on  cross  benches  in  front,  a 
line  of  approach  to  the  dais  between 
them.  In  the  foreground  .Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall  and  other  Members  of  the 
Commons.] 

First  Member.    St.  Andrew's  day ;  sit 

close,  sit  close,  we  are  friends. 
Is  reconciled  the  word  ?  the  Pope  again  ? 
It  must  be  thus  ;  and  yet,  cocksbody  ! 

how  strange 
That  Gardiner,  once  so  one  with  all  of 

us 
Against   this  foreign   marriage,   should 

have  yielded 
So    utterly  !  —  strange  !    but    stranger 

still  that  he, 
So  fierce  against  the  Headship  of  the 

Pope, 
Should  play  the   second  actor  in   this 

pageant 
That  brings  him  in  ;  such  a  chameleon 

he  ! 
Second  Member.    This  Gardiner  turn'd 

his  coat  in  Henry's  time  ; 
The   serpent    that    hath   slough'd   will 

slough  again. 
Third  Member.    Tut,  then  we  all  are 

serpents. 
Second  Mendjer.       Speak  for  j'ourself. 
Third  .Member.    Ay,  and   for  Gardi- 
ner !  being  English  citizen. 
How  should  he  bear  a  bridegroom  out 

of  Spain  ? 
The   Queen    would    have    him  !    being 

English  churchman. 
How  .should  he  bear  the  headship  of  the 

Pope? 
The  Queen  would  have  it !     Statesmen 
that  are  wise 


Shape  a  necessity,  as  the  sculptor  clay, 

To  their  own  model. 

Second  Member.    Statesmen   that  are 
wise 

Take  truth  herself  for  model,  what  say 
you  ? 

\_To  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall.    We  talk  and  talk. 
First  Member.    Ay,  and  what  use  to 
talk? 

Philip  's  no  sudden  alien  —  the  Queen's 
husband. 

He  's  here,  and  king,  or  will  be,  —  yet 
cocksbody ! 

So  hated  here  !    I  watch'd  a  hive  of  late; 

My  seven-yeaiV  friend  was  with  me,  my 
young  boy  ; 

Out  crept  a  wasp,  with  half  the  swarm 
behind. 

"Philip,"  says  he.     I  had  to  cuff  the 
rogue 

For  infant  ti'eason. 

Third   Member.    But   they   say   that 
bees. 

If  any  creeping  life  invade  their  hive 

To  gross  to  be  thrust  out,    will  build 
him  round. 

And  bind  him  in  from  harming  of  their 
combs. 

And  Philip  by  these  articles  is  bound 

From  stirring  hand  or  foot  to  wrong  the 
realm. 
Second  Member.    By   bonds   of  bees- 
wax, like  your  creeping  thing  ; 

But  your  wise  bees  had  stung  him  first 
to  death. 
Third  Member.    Hush,  hush  ! 

You  ^^Tong  the  Chancellor :  the  clauses 
added 

To  that  same  treaty  which  the  emperor 
sent  us 

Were  mainly  Gardiner's  :   that  no  for- 
eigner 

Hold  office  in  the  household,  fleet,  forts, 
army; 

That  if  the  Queen  should  die  without  d 
child. 

The  bond  between  the  kingdoms  be  dis- 
solved ; 

That  Philip  should  not  mix  us  any  way 

With  his  French  wars  — 

Second  Member.    Ay,  ay,  but  what  se- 
curity. 

Good  sir,  for  this,  if  Philip  — 

Third  Member.      Peace  —  the  Queen, 

Philip,  and  Pole. 

\_All  rise,  and  stand, 


QUEEN   MARY. 


4:99 


Enter  Mart,  Philip,  and  Pole. 

[Gardiner  coyiducts  them  to  the  three 
chairs  of  state.  Philip  sits  on  the 
Queen's  left,  Pole  on  her  right. 

Oardiuer.    Our  short-lived  suu,  before 
his  winter  plunge, 
Laughs  at  the  last  red  leaf,  and  Andrew's 
Day. 
Mary.    Should  not  this  day  be  held 
in  after  years 
More  solemn  than  of  old  ? 

Philip.  Madam,  my  wish 

Echoes  your  Majesty's. 

Pole.  It  shall  be  so. 

Gardiner.     Mine    echoes    both   your 

Graces'  ;  (aside)  but  the  Pope  — 

Can  we  not  have  the  Catholic  church  as 

well 
Without  as  with  the  Italian  ?  if  we  can- 
not, 
Why  then  the  Pope. 

My  lords  of  the  upper  house. 
And  ye,  my  masters,  of  thu  lower  house, 
Do  ye  stand  fast  by  that  which  ye  re- 
solved ? 
Voices.    We  do. 

Gardiner.    And  be  you  all  one  mind 
to  supplicate 
The    Legate   here  for  parden,    and  ac- 
knowledge 
The  primacy  of  the  Pope  ? 

Voices.  We  are  all  one  mind. 

Gardiner.   Then  must  I  play  the  vas- 
sal to  this  Pole.  \^Aside. 

[He  draws  a  paper  from  binder  his 
robes  and  presents  it  to  the  King 
and  Queen,  who  look  through  it 
and  return  it  to  him  ;  then a-icends 
a  tribune  and  reads. 

We,  the  Lords  Spiritual  and  Temporal, 
And  Commons   here  in  Parliament  as- 
sembled. 
Presenting  the  whole  body  of  this  realm 
Of  England,  and  dominions  of  the  same, 
Do  make  most  humble  suit  unto  j'our 

Majesties, 
In  our  own  name  and  that  of  all  the 

state, 
That  by  your  gracious  means  and  inter- 
cession 
Our  supplication  be  exhibited 
To  the  Lord  Cardinal  Pole,  sent  here  as 

Legate 
From  our  most  holy  father  Julius,  Pope, 
And  from  the  apostolic  see  of  Rome  ; 
And  do  declare  our  penitence  and  grief 


For  our  long  schism  and  disobedience, 
Either  in  making  laws  and  ordinances 
Against  the  Huly  Father's  jirimacy. 
Or  else  by  doing  or  by  speaking  aught 
Which  might  impugn  or  prejudice  the 

same  ; 
By  this  our  supplication  promising. 
As  well  for  our  own  selves  as   all  the 

realm, 
That  now  we  be  and  ever  shall  be  quick, 
Under  and  with  your  Majesties'  author- 
ities. 
To  do  to  the  utmost  all  that  in  us  lies 
Towards  the  abrogation  and  repeal 
Of  all  such  laws  and  ordinances  made  ; 
Whereon  we   humbly   pray  your   Maj- 

esties. 
As  persons  undetiled  with  our  offence, 
So  to  set  forth  this  humble  suit  of  ours 
That  we  the  rather  by  your  intercession 
ilay  from  the  apostolic  see  obtain, 
Thro'  this  most  reverend  Father,  abso- 
lution, 
And  full  release  from  danger  of  all  cen- 
sures 
Of  Holy  Church  that  we  be  fall'n  into, 
So  that  we  may,  as  children  penitent, 
Be  once  again  received  into  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church  ; 
And  that  this  noble   realm  thro'  after 

years 
]\Iay  in  this  unity  and  obedience 
Unto  the  holy  see  and  reigning  Pope 
Serve  God  and  both  your  Majesties. 
Voices.  Amen.    [All  sit. 

[He  again  presents  the  petition  to  the 
King  and  Queen,  who  hand  it  rev- 
erentially  to  Pole. 

Pole  (sitting).    This  is  the  loveliest  day 

that  ever  smiled 
On    England.     All  her   breath  should, 

incense  like. 
Rise  to  the  heavens  in  grateful  praise  oi 

Him 
Who  now  recalls  her  to  his  ancient  fold. 
Lo  !  once  again  God  to  this  realm  hath 

given 
A  token  of  His  more  especial  Grace  ; 
For  as  this  people  were  the  first  of  all 
The    islands    call'd   into   the   dawning 

church 
Out  of  the  dead,  deep  night  of  heathen- 
dom. 
So  now  are   tliese  the  first  whom  God 

hath  given 
Grace  to  repent  and  sorrow  for   their 

schism ; 


500 


QUEEN   MARY. 


And  if  your  penitence  be  not  mockery, 

Oh  how  the  blessed  angels  who  rejoice 

Over  one    saved   do   triumph    at    this 
hour 

In  the  reborn  salvation  of  a  land 

So  noble.  [A  pause. 

For  ourselves  we  do  protest 

That   our  commission   is   to   heal,  not 
harm  ; 

We  come  not  to  condemn,   but   recon- 
cile ; 

We  come  not  to  compel,  but  call  again  ; 

We  come  not  to  destroy,  but  edit'y  ; 

Nor  yet  to  question  things  already  done  ; 

These    are    forgiven  —  matters    of    the 
past  — 

And  range  with  jetsam  and  with  offal 
thrown 

Into  the  blind  sea  of  forgetfulness. 

[A  2MUSC. 

Ye   have    reversed  the    attainder  laid 
on  us 

By  him  who  sack'd  the  house  of  God  ; 
and  we, 

Amplier  than   any   field   on   our   poor 
earth 

Can   render  thanks   in  fruit    for  being 
sown, 

Do  here  and  now  repay  you  sixty-fold, 

A  hundred,  yea,  a  thousand  thousand- 
fold. 

With  heaven  for  earth. 

\_Rising    and    stretching    forth    his 
hands.      All  kneel  but  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall,  who  rises  and  remains 
standing. 
The  Lord  who  hatli  redeem'd  us 

With  his  own  blood,  and  wash'd  us  from 
our  sins. 

To   purchase   for    Himself    a   stainless 
bride  ; 

He,   whom   the  Father  hath  appointed 
Head 

Of  all  his  church.  He  by  His  mercy  ab- 
solve you  !  [A  pause. 

And  we  by  tiiat  authority  Apostolic 

Given  unto  us,  his  Legate,  by  the  Pope, 

Our  Lord  and  Holy  Father,  Julius, 

God's  Vicar  and  Vicegerent  upon  earth, 

Do  here  absolve  you  and  deliver  you 

And  every  one  of  you,  and  all  the  realm 

And  its  donunions  from  all  heresy, 

All  schism,  and  from  all  and  every  cen- 
sure, 

Judgment,    and    pain    accruing    there- 
upon ; 

And  also  we  restore  you  to  the  bosom 


And  unity  of  Universal  Church. 

[Tunu'iuj  to  Gardiner. 
Our  letters  of  commission  will  declare 
this  plain  lier. 

[Queen  heard  sobbing.  Cries  oj 
Amen!  Amen!  Some  of  the  mem- 
bers embrace  one  another.  All  but 
Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  pass  out 
into  the  neigliboring  chapel  ivhencz 
is  heard  the  Te  Deum. 

Bacfenhall.    We  strove  against  the  pa- 
pacy from  tlie  first, 

In  William's  time,  in  our  first  Edward's 
time, 

And  in  ray  master  Henry's  time  ;  but 
now. 

The  unity  of  Universal  Church, 

Mary  would  have  it ;  and  this  Gardiner 
follows  ; 

The  unity  of  Universal  Hell, 

Philip  would  have  it  ;  and  this  Gardiner 
follows  ! 

A  Parliament  of  imitative  apes  ! 

Slieep  at  the  gap  wluch  Gardiner  takes, 
who  not 

Believes  the  Pope,  nor  any  of  them  be- 
lieve — 

These   spaniel- Spaniard  English  of  the 
time. 

Who   rub  their  fawning  ncses   in   the 
dust, 

For  that  is  Philip's  gold-dust,  and  adore 

Tills  Vicar  of  their  Vicar.    Would  I  had 
been 

Born  Spaniard  !     I  had  held  my  head 
up  then. 

I  am  ashamed  that  I  am  Bagenhall, 

English. 

Enter  Officer. 

Officer.     Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 
Bagenhall.  What  of  that  ? 

Officer.    You  were  the  one  sole  man  iii 

either  house 
Who  stood  upright  when  both  the  houses 

fell. 
Bagenhall.    The  houses  fell  ! 
Officer.  I  mean  the  houses  knelt 

Before  the  Legate. 
Bagenhall.  Do  not  scrimp  your 

phrase. 
But  stretch  it  wider  ;  say  when  England 

fell. 
Officer.    I  say  you  were  the  one  sole 

man  who  stood. 
Bagenliall.    I  am  the  one  sole  man  in 

either  house, 


QUEEN   MARY. 


501 


Perchance  in  England,  loves  her  like  a 
son. 
Officer.    Well,  you  one  man,  because 
you  stood  upright, 
Her  Grace  the  Queen  commands  you  to 
the  Tower. 
Bagenhall.    As  traitor,  or  as  heretic, 

or  for  what  ? 
Officer.    If    any    man    in    any     way 
would  be 
The  one  man  he  shall  be  so  to  his  cost. 
Bagenhall.    What  !  will  she  have  my 

head  ? 
Officer.  A  round  fine  likelier. 

Yoxu'  pardon.         [^Calling  to  Altendavt. 
By  the  river  to  the  Tower. 
\_Excunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  WHITEHALL.    A  KOOxM 
IN  THE  PALACE. 

Mary,   Gardiner,  Pole,   Paget,    Bon- 
ner, etc. 

Mary.    The  king  and  I,  my    Lords, 

now  that  all  traitors 
Against   our   royal  state  have  lost  the 

heads 
Wherewith  they  plotted  in  their  treason- 
ous malice. 
Have    talk'd    together,    and    are    well 

agreed 
That  those  old  statutes  touching  Lollard- 
ism 
To    bring    the   heretic    to    the   stake, 

should  be 
No  longer   a  dead    letter,  but  requick- 

en'd. 
One  of  the  Council.    Why,  what  hath 

fluster'd  Gardiner  ?  how  he  rubs 
His  forelock. 

Paget.    I  have  changed  a  word  with 

him 
In   coming,    and   may  change  a   word 

again. 
Gardiner.    Madam,  your  Highness  is 

our  sun,  the  King 
And  you  together  our  two  suns  in  one  ; 
And  so  the  beams  of  both  may  shine 

upon  us. 
The  faith  that  seem'd  to  droop  will  feel 

your  light. 
Lift  head,  and  flourish-,  yet   not  light 

alone, 
There  must   be  heat  —  there   must    be 

heat  enough 
To  scorch  and  wither  heresy  to  the  root. 


Tor  what  saith  Christ  ?    "Compel  them 

to  come  in." 
And  what  saith  Paul  ?     "I  would  they 

were  cut  otf 
That  trouble  you."     Let  the  dead  letter 

live  ! 
Trace   it  in  lire,    that   all  the  louts  to 

whom 
Their  A  B  C  is   darkness,  clowns  and 

grooms 
May  read  it !  so  you  quash  rebellion  too, 
For  heretic  and  traitor  are  all  one  : 
Two  vipers  of  one  breed  —  an  amphis- 

boena. 
Each  end  a  sting  :  Let  the  dead  letter 

burn  ! 
Paget.    Yet   there   be    some   disloyal 

Catholics, 
And     many     heretics     loyal  ;    heretic 

throats 
Cried   no   God-bless-her   to   the    Lady 

Jane, 
But  .shouted  in  Queen  Mary.    So  there  be 
Some   traitor-heretic,    there  is  axe  and 

cord. 
To  take  the  lives  of  others  that  are  loyal. 
And  by  the  churchman's  pitiless  doom 

of  fire 
Were   but  a    thankless  policy   in   the 

crown, 
Ay,  and  against   itself ;    for  there   are 

many. 
Marij.    If  we  could  burn  out  heresy, 

my  Lord  Paget, 
We  reek  not  tho'  we  lost  this  crown  of 

England  — 
Ay  !  tho'  it  were  ten  Knglands  ! 

Gardiner.  Eight,  your  Grace. 

Paget,  you  are  all  for  this  poor  life  of 

ours, 
.Ind  care  but  little  for  the  life  to  be. 
Paget.    I  have  some  time,  for  curious- 

ness,  my  Lord, 
Watch'd   children  playing  at  their  life 

to  be. 
And  cruel  at  it,  killing  helpless  flies  ; 
Such  is  our  time  —  all  times  for  aught  I 

know. 
Gardiner.    We  kill  the  heretics  that 

sting  the  soul  — 
They,  with  right  reason,  flies  that  prick 

the  flesh. 
Paget.    They   had   not   reach'd  right 

reason  ;  little  children  ! 
They  kill'd  but  for  their  pleasure  and 

the  power 
They  felt  in  killing. 


502 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Gardiner.  A  spice  of  Satan,  ha  ! 

Why,  good!  what  then?  granted! — we 

are  fallen  creatures  ; 
Look   to   your    Bible,    Paget  I    we   are 

fallen. 
Paget.    I  am  but  of  the  laity,  my  Lord 

Bishop, 
And  may  not  read  your  Bible,   yet   I 

found 
One  day,  a  wholesome  scripture,  "  Little 

children. 
Love  one  another." 

Gardiner.      Did  you  find  a  scrii)ture, 
"  I  come  not  to  bring  peace  but  a  sword  "  ? 

The  sword 
Is  ir  her  Grace's  hand  to  smite  with. 

Paget, 
You  stand  up  here  to  fight  for  heresy. 
You  are  more  than  guess'd  at  as  a  here- 
tic. 
And  on  the  steep-up  track  of  the  true 

faith 
Your  lapses  are  far  seen. 

Paget.  The  faultless  Gardiner  I 

Mary.    You  brawl  beyond  the  (ques- 
tion ;  speak,  Lord  Legate. 
Pole.    Indeed,    1   cannot  follow  with 

your  Grace, 
Rather  would  say  —  the  shepherd  doth 

not  kill 
The  sheep  that  wander  from  his  fiock, 

but  sends 
His  careful  dog  to  bring  them  to  the 

fold. 
Look  to  the  Netherlands,  wherein  have 

been 
Such  holocausts  of  heresy  !  to  what  end  > 
For  yet  the  faith  is  not  establislied  there. 
Gardiner.    The  end  's  not  come. 
Pole.      No  —  nor  this  way  will  come. 
Seeing  there  lie  two  ways  to  every  end, 
A  better   and  a  worse  —  the  worse  is 

here 
To  persecute,  because  to  persecute 
Makes  a  faith  hated,  aud  is  furthermore 
No  perfect  witness  of  a  perfect  faith 
In  him  who  persecutes  :  when  men  are 

tost 
On  tides  of  strange  opinion,  aiul  not  sure 
Of  their  own  selves,  they  are  wroth  with 

their  own  selves, 
And   thence   with   others ;    then,    who 

lights  the  fagot  ? 
Not  the  full  faith,  no,  but  the  lurking 

doubt. 
Old  Rome,  that  first  made  martyrs  in 

the  Church, 


Trembled  for  her  own  gods,  foi  these 

were  trembling  — 
But  when  did  our  Rome  tremble  ? 

Paget.  Did  she  not 

In  Henry's  time  aud  Edward's  ? 

Pole.  What,  my  Lord  ! 

The  Church  on  Peter's  rock  ?  never !  I 

have  seen 
A  pine  in  Italy  that  cast  its  shadow 
Athwart    a   cataract  ;    firm    stood    the 

pine  — 
The  cataract  shook  the  shadow.     Tc  my 

mind. 
The  cataract  typed  the  headlong  plunge 

and  fall 
Of  heresy  to  the  pit  :  the  pine  was  Rome. 
You  see,  my  Lords, 
It  was  the  shadow  of  the  Church  that 

trsmbled ; 
Your  church  was  but  the  shadow  of  a 

church. 
Wanting  the  u'iple  mitre. 

Gardiner  { m  uttering).    Here  be  tropes. 
Pole.    And  tropes  are  good  to  clothe  a 

naked  truth. 
And  make  it  look  more  seemly. 

Gardiner.  Tropes  again  ! 

Pole.    You  are  hard  to  please.     "Then 

Avithout  tropes,  my  Lord, 
An  overmuch  severeness,  I  repeat. 
When  faith  is  wavering  makes  the  wa- 

verer  pass 
Into  more  settled  hatred  of  the  doctrines 
Of  those  who  rule,  which  hatred  by  and 

by 
Involves  the  ruler  (thus  there  springs  to 

ligl:t 
That  Centaur  ot  a  monstrous  Common 

weal. 
The  traitor-heretic)  then  tho'  some  may 

quail. 
Yet  others  are  that  dare  the  stake  and 

fire. 
And  their  strong  torment  bravely  borne; 

begets 
An  admiration  and  an  indignation, 
And  hot  desire  to  imitate  ;  so  the  plague 
Of  schism  spreads  ;  were  there  but  three 

or  four 
Of  these  misleaders,  yet  I  would   not 

say 
Burn  !  and  we  cannot  burn  whole  towns  ; 

they  are  many. 
As  my  Lord  Paget  says. 

Gardiner.     Yet,  my  Lord  Cardinal  — 
Pole.    I  am  your  Legate ;  please  yoii 

let  me  finish. 


QUEEN   MARY. 


503 


Methinks  that  under  our  Queen's  regi- 
men 
We  might  go  softlier  than  with  crimson 

rowel 
And  streaming  lash.   When  Herod-Henry 

first 
Began  to  batter  at  your  English  Church, 
This  was  the  cause,  and  hence  the  judg- 
ment on  her. 
She  seethed  with  such  adulteries,  and 

the  lives 
Of  many  among  your  churchmen  were 

so  foul 
That   heaven  wept  and  earth  blush'd. 

I  would  advise 
That  we  slu)nl(l  thoroughly  cleanse  the 

Chureli  within 
Before  these  bitter  statutes  be  requick- 

en'd. 
So  after  that  when  she  once  more  is  seen 
White  as  the  light,  the  spotless  bride 

of  Christ, 
Like  Christ  himself  on  Tabor,  possibly 
The  Lutheran  may  be  won  to  her  again  ; 
Till  when,  my  Lords,  I  counsel  tolerance. 
Gardiner.    What,  if  a  mad   dog   bit 

your  hand,  my  Lord, 
Would  you  not  chop  the  bitten  finger 

off, 
Lest  your  whole  body  should  madden 

with  the  poison  ? 
\  would  not,  were  I  Queen,  tolerate  the 

heretic. 
No,  not  an  hour.     The  ruler  of  a  land 
Is  bounden  by  his  power  and  place  to  see 
His  people  be  not  poison'd.     Tolerate 

them  ! 
Why  ?    do   they   tolerate   you  ?      Nay, 

many  of  them 
Would  burn — have  burnt  each  other  ; 

call  they  not 
The  one  true  faith,  a  loathsome  idol- 

worshi]!  ? 
Beware,  Lord  Legate,  of  a  heavier  crime 
Than  heresy  is  itself ;  beware  I  say 
Lest  men  accuse  you  of  indifference 
To  all  faiths,  all  religion  ;  for  you  know 
Right  well  that  you  yourself  have  been 

supposed 
Tainted  with  Lutheranism  in  Italy. 
Pole  {angered).    But   you,    my   Lord, 

beyond  all  supposition, 
In  clear  and  open  day  were  congruent 
With  that  vile  Cranmer  in  the  accursed 

lie 
Of  good  Queen  Catherine's  divorce  —  the 

.spring 


Of  all  those  evils  that  have  flow'd  upon 

us  ; 
For  you  yourself  have  truckled  to  the 

tyrant. 
And  done  your  best  to  bastardize  our 

Queen, 
For  which  God's  righteous  judgment  fell 

upon  you 
In  your  five  years  of  imprisonment,  my 

Lord, 
Under  young  Edward.    Who  so  bolstar'd 

up  ,^ 
The  gross  King's  headship  of  the  Church, 

or  more 
Denied  the  Holy  Father  ! 

Gareliner.  Ha  !  what !  eh  ? 

But  you,  my  Lord,  a  jiolish'd  gentleman, 
A  bookman,  flying  from  the  heat  and 

tussle. 
You  lived  among  your  vines  and  oranges, 
In  your  soft  Italy  yonder  !     You  were 

sent  for, 
You  were  appeal'd  to,  but  you  still  pre- 

ferr'd 
Your   learned   leisure.    As  for  what   I 

did 
I  suflfer'd  and  repented.     You,  Lord  Leg- 
ate 
And  Cardinal-Deacon,  have  not  now  to 

learn 
That  ev'n  St.  Peter  in  his  time  of  fear 
Denied  his  Master,  ay,  and  thrice,  my 

Lord. 
Pole.    But   not   for  five   and  twenty 

years,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.    Ha  !  good  !  it  seems  then 

I  was  summon'd  hither 
But  to  be  mock'd  and  baited.     Speak, 

friend  Bonner, 
And  tell  this  learned  Legate  he  lacks 

zeal. 
The  Church's  evil  is  not  as  the  King's, 
Cannot  be  heal'd  by  stroking.    The  mad 

bite 
Must  have  the  cautery  —  tell  him  —  and 

at  once. 
What  wouldst  thou  do  hadst  thou  his 

power,  thou 
That  layest  so  long  in  heretic  bonds  with 

me. 
Wouldst  tliou  not  burn  and  blast  them 

root  and  branch  ? 
Bonner.    Ay,  after  you,  my  Lord. 
Gardiner.    Nay,  God's  passion,  before 

me  !  speak. 
Bonner.    I  am  on  fire  until  I  see  them 

flame. 


504 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Gardiner.    Ay,    the     psalm  -  singing 
weavers,   cobblers,  scum  — 

But  this  most  noble  prince  Plantagenet, 

Our  good  Queen's  cousin  —  dallying  over 
seas 

Even  when  his  brother's,  nay,  his  noble 
mother's. 

Head  fell  — 

Pole.  Peace,  mad  man  ! 

Thou  stirrest  up  a  grief  thou  canst  not 
fathom. 

Thou  Christian  Bishop,  thou  Lord  Chan- 
cellor 

Of  England  !  no  more  rein  upon  thine 
anger 

Than  any  child  !    Thou  mak'st  me  much 
ashamed 

That    I    was   for   a   moment   wroth    at 
thee. 
Mary.    I  come  for  counsel  and  ye  give 
me  feuds, 

Like  dogs  that  set  to  watch  their  mas- 
ter's gate. 

Fall,  when  the  thief  is  ev'n  within  the 
walls, 

To   worrying  one  another.      My  Lord 
Chancellor, 

You  have  an  old  trick  of  offending  us  ; 

And  but  that  you  are  art  and  part  with 
us 

In  purging  heresy,  well  we  might,  for 
this 

Your  violence  and  much  roughness  to 
the  Legate, 

Have  shut  you  Ironi  our  counsels.    Cous- 
in Pole, 

You  are  fresh  from  brighter  lands.     Re- 
tire with  me. 

His  highness  and  myself  (so  you  allow 
us) 

Will  let  you  learn  in  peace  and  privacy 

What  power  this  cooler  sun  of  England 
hath 

In  breeding  Godless  vermin.     And  pray 
Heaven 

That  you  may  see  according  to  our  sight. 

Come,  cousin. 

[Eveunt  Queen  and  Pole,  etc. 
Gardiner.     Pole  has  the  Plantagenet 
face, 
But  not  the  force  made  them  our  mighti- 
est kings. 
Fineeyes — but  melancholy,  irresolute  — 

A  fine  beard,  Bonner,  a  very  full  fine 

beard. 
But  a  weak  mouth,  an  indeterminate  — 
ha? 


Bonner.    Well,   a  weak  mouth,   pei- 

chance. 
Gardiner.         And  not  like  thine 
To  goige  a  heretic  whole,   roasted   or 

raw. 
Bonner.    I  'd  do  my  best,  my  Lerd ; 

but  yet  the  Legate 
Is  heie  as  Pope  and  Master  of  the  Church; 
And  if  he  go  not  with  you  — 

Gardiner.  Tut,  Master  Bishop, 

Our  bashful  Legate,  saw'st  not  how  he 

flush'd  ? 
Touch  him  upon  his  old  heretical  talk. 
He  '11  burn  a  diocese  to  prove  his  ortho- 
doxy. 
And  let  him  call  me  truckler.     In  those 

times. 
Thou  knowest  we  had  to  dodge,  or  duck, 

or  die  ; 
I  kept  my  head  for  use  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  see  you,  we  shall  have  to  dodge 

again. 
And  let  the  Pope  trample  our  rights,  and 

plunge 
His  foreign  fist  into  our  island  Church 
To  plump  the  leaner  pouch  of  Italy. 
For  a  time,  for  a  time. 
Why  ?  that  these  statutes  may  be  put 

in  force, 
And  that  his  fan  may  thoroughly  purge 

his  floor. 
Bonner.    So  then  you  hold  the  Pope  — 
Gardiner.  I  hold  the  Pope  ! 

What  do  I  hold  him  ?  what  do  I  hold 

the  Pope  ? 
Come,   come,    the   morsel  stuck  —  this 

Cardinal's  fault  — 
I  have  gulpt  it  down.     I  am  wholly  for 

the  Pope, 
Utterly  and  altogether  for  the  Pope, 
The   Eternal    Peter   of    the   changeless 

chair, 
Crown'd  slave  of  slaves,  and  mitred  king 

of  kings, 
God    upon   earth  !    what   more  ?    what 

would  you  have  ? 
Hence,  let 's  be  gone. 

Enter  UsHER. 

Usher.        Well  that  you  be  not  gone, 

My  Lord.  The  Queen,  most  wroth  at 
first  with  you. 

Is  now  content  to  grant  you  full  forgive- 
ness, 

So  that  you  crave  full  pardon  of  the 
Legate. 

I  am  sent  to  fetch  you. 


QUEEN   MARY. 


505 


Gardiner.      Doth  Pole  j'ield,  sir,  ha  ! 
Did  you  hear  'em  ?  were  you  by  ? 

Usher.  I  cannot  tell  you, 

His  bearing  is  so  courtly-delicate  ; 
And  yet  nietliinks  he  falters  :  their  two 

Graces 
Do  so  dear-cousin  and  royal-cousin  him, 
So  press  on  him  the  duty  which  as  Legate 
He  owes  himself,  and  with  such  royal 

smiles  — 
Gardiner.    Smiles    that    burn    men. 

Bonner,  it  will  be  carried. 
He  falters,  ha  ?  'fore  God  we  change  and 

change  ; 
Men  now  are  bow'd  and  old,  the  doctors 

tell  you, 
At  threescore  years  ;  then  if  we  change 

at  all 
We  needs  must  do  it  quickly  ;  it  is  an 

age 
Of  brief   life,   and   brief   purpose,   and 

brief  patience, 
As  I  have  shown  to-day.     I  am  sorry 

for  it 
If  Pole  be  like  to  turn.     Our  old  friend 

Craniner, 
Your  more  especial  love,  hath  turn'd  so 

often, 
He  knows  not  where  he  stands,  which, 

if  this  pass, 
"We  two  shall  have  to  teach  him ;  let 

'em  look  to  it, 
Cranmer  and  Hooper,  Kidley  and  Lati- 
mer, 
Rogers  and    Ferrar,    for   their   time   is 

come. 
Their  hour  is  hard  at  hand,  their  "dies 

Irje," 
Their  "  dies  Ilia,"  which  will  test  their 

sect. 
I  feel  it  but  a  duty  —  you  will  find  in  it 
Pleasure  as  well  as  duty,  worthy  Bon- 
ner, — 
To  test  their  sect.     Sir,    I   attend  the 

Queen 
To  crave  most  humble  pardon  —  of  her 

most 
Royal,  Infallible,  Papal  Legate-cousin. 
[Excicnt. 

SCENE  v.  — WOODSTOCK. 
Elizabeth,  Lady  in  Waiting. 

Lady.    The  colors  of  our  Queen  are 
green  and  white, 
These  fields  are  only  gieen,  they  make 
me  gape. 


Elizabeth.    There  's  whitethorn,  girl. 
Lady.  Ay,  for  an  hour  in  May. 

But  court  is  always  May,  buds  out  in 

masks, 
Breaks  into  feather'd  merriments,  and 

flowers 
In  silken  pageants.     Why  do  they  keep 

us  here  ? 
Why  still  suspect  your  Grace  ? 

Elizabeth.  Hard  upon  botL 

[  Writes  on  the  loindow  with  a  diamond. 

Much  suspected,  of  me 
Nothing  proven  can  be, 

Quotli  Elizabeth,  prisoner. 

Lady.    What    hath    your    Highness 

written  ? 
Elizabeth.  A  true  rhyme. 

Lady.    Cut  with  a  diamond  ;   so   to 

last  like  truth. 
Elizabeth.    Ay,  if  truth  last. 
Lady.    But  truth,  they  say,  will  out, 
So  it  must  last.     It  is  not  like  a  word. 
That  comes  and  goes  in  uttering. 

Elizabeth.  Truth,  a  word  ! 

The   very   Truth    and   very   Word   are 

one. 
But  truth  of  story,  which  I  glanced  at, 

gill. 
Is  like  a  word  that  comes  from   olden 

days, 
And    passes   thro'    the   peoples  :   every 

tongue 
Alters  it  passing,  till  it  spells  and  speaks 
Quite  other  than  at  first. 

Lady.  I  do  not  follow. 

Elizabeth.    How  many  names  in  the 

long  sweep  of  time 
That  so  foreshortens  greatness,  may  but 

hang 
On  the  chance  mention  of  some  fool  that 

once 
Brake  bread  with  us,  perhaps  ;  and  my 

poor  chronicle 
Is  but  of  glass.     Sir  Henry  Bedingfield 
May  split  it  for  a  spite. 

Lady.  God  grant  it  last, 

And  witness  to  your  Grace's  innocence. 
Till  doomsday  melt  it. 

Elizabeth.  Or  a  second  fire, 

Like  that  which  lately  crackled  under- 
foot 
And  in  this  very  chamber,  fuse  the  glass. 
And  char  us  back  again  into  the  dust 
We  spring  from.    Never  peacock  against 

rain 
Scream'd  as  you  did  for  water. 

Lady.  And  I  got  it. 


506 


QUEEN   MAKY. 


I  woke  Sir  Heury  —  and  he 's  true  to 

you  — 
I  read  his  honest  horror  in  his  eyes. 
Elizabeth.    Or  true  to  you  ? 
Lady.  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield ! 

I  will  have  no  man  true  to  me,  your 

Grace, 
But  one  that  pares  his  nails  ;  to  me  ? 

the  clown  ! 
For,  like  his  cloak,  his  manners  want 

the  nap 
And  gloss  of  court ;  but  of  this  fire  he 

says, 
Nay  swears,  it  was  no  wicked  wilfulness, 
Only  a  natural  chance. 

Elizabeth.  A  chance — perchance 

One  of  those  wicked  wilfuls  that  men 

make, 
Nor  shame  to  call  it  nature.     Nay,  I 

know 
They  hunt   my  blood.       Save   for   my 

daily  range 
Among  the  pleasant  fields  of  Holy  Writ 
I  might  despair.     But  there  hath  some 

one  come  ; 
The  house  is  all  in  movement.     Hence, 

and  see.  [Exit  Lady. 

Milkmaid  {singing  mthoiif). 

Shame  upon  you,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now  ! 
Kiss  me  would  you?  with  my  hands 

Mill<ing  the  cow? 

Daisies  grow  again. 

Kingcups  blow  again. 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  nie, 

Kiss'd  me  well  I  vow  ; 
Cuff  him  could  I?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  ? 

Swallows  fly  again, 

Cuckoos  cry  again, 
And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now  ; 
Help  it  can  I  ?  with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Ringdoves  coo  again, 

All  things  woo  again. 
Come  behind  and  kiss  me  milking  the  cow  ! 

Elizabeth.     Right   honest    and    red- 

cheek'd ;  Robin  was  violent, 
And  she  was  crafty  —  a  sweet  violence. 
And  a  sweet  craft.     I  would  I  were  a 

milkmaid, 
To  sing,  love,  marry,  churn,  brew,  bake, 

and  die, 
Then  have  my  simple  headstone  by  the 

church, 
And  3.11  things  lived  and  ended  honestly. 


I  could  not  if  I  would.     I  am  Harry's 

daughter  : 
Gardiner  would  have  my  head.     They 

are  not  sweet, 
The  violence  and  the  craft  that  do  divide 
The  world   of   nature  ;    what   is   weak 

must  lie  ; 
The  lion  needs  but  roar  to  guard  his; 

young  ; 
The  lapwing  lies,   says   "here"  when 

they  are  there. 
Threaten  the  child  ;  "I  '11  scourge  you 

if  you  did  it." 
What  weapon  hath  the  child,  save  his 

soft  tongue, 
To  say  "  I  did  not "  ?  and  my  rod  's  the 

block. 
I  never  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow 
But  that  i  think,  "  Wilt  thou  lie  there 

to-morrow  ?" 
How   oft  the   falling  axe,    that   never 

fell. 
Hath  shock'd  me  back  into  the  daylight 

truth 
That  it  may  fall  to-day  !     Those  damp, 

black,  dead 
Nights  in  the  Tower  ;  dead  —  with  the 

fear  of  death  — 
Too  dead  ev'n  for  a  death-watch  !     Toll 

of  a  bell, 
Stroke  of  a  clock,  the  scurrying  of  a 

rat 
Affrighted  me,  and  then  delighted  me. 
For  there  was  life  —  And  there  was  life 

in  death — 
The  little  murder'd  princes,  in  a  pale 

light. 
Rose    hand    in    hand,    and   whisper'd, 

"come  away. 
The  civil  wars  are  gone  forevermore : 
Thou  last  of  all  the  Tudors,  come  away, 
With  us  is  peace  !  "     The  last  ?     It  was 

a  dream  ; 
I  must  not  dream,  not  wink,  but  watch. 

She  has  gone, 
Maid  Marian  to  her  Robin  —  by  and  by 
Both  happy !  a  fox  may  filch  a  hen  by 

night, 
And  make  a  morning  outcry  in  the  yard ; 
But  there's  no  Renard  hereto  "catch 

her  tripping." 
Catch   nie  who  can ;  yet,    sometime    1 

have  wish'd 
That  I  were  caught,  and  kill'd  away  at 

once 
Out  of  the  flutter.      The  gray  rogue, 

Gardiner, 


QUEEN   MARY. 


507 


Went  on  his  knees,  and  pray'd  me  to 

confess 
In  Wyatt's  business,  and  to  cast  myself 
Upon   the    good    Queen's    mercy ;   ay, 

when,  my  Lord  ? 
God  save  the  Queen.     My  jailer  — 

£nter  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield. 

Bedingfield.  One,  whose  bolts, 

That  jail  you  from  free  life,   bar  you 

from  death. 
There  haunt  some  Papist  ruffians  here- 
about 
Would  murder  you. 

Elizabeth.     1  thank  you  heartily,  sir. 
But  I  am  royal,  tho'  your  prisoner, 
And  God  hath  blest  or  cursed  me  with 

a  nose  — 
Your  boots  are  from  the  horses. 

Bedingjield.  Ay,  my  Lady. 

When  ne.xt  tliere  comes  a  missive  from 

the  Queen 
It  shall  be  all  mj'  study  for  one  hour 
To  rose  and  lavender  my  horsiness. 
Before  I  dare  to  glance  upon  youi-  Grace. 
Elizabeth.    A  missive  from  the  Queen  : 
last  time  .she  wrote, 
I  had  like  to  have  lost  my  life  :  it  takes 
my  breath  : 

0  God,  sir,  do  you  look  upon  your  boots, 
Are  you  so  small  a  man  ?     Help  me  : 

what  think  you. 
Is  it  life  or  death  ? 

Bedingjield.    I    thought   not   on   my 

boots  ; 
The  devil  take  all  boots  were  ever  made 
Since  man  went  barefoot.     See,  I  lay  it 

here. 
For  I  will  come  no  nearer  to  your  Grace  ; 
[Laying  douni  the  letter. 
And  wliether  it  bring  you  bitter  news 

or  sweet, 
AJid  God  have  given  your  Grace  a  nose, 

or  not, 

1  '11  help  you,  if  I  may. 

Elizahi'th.  Your  pardon,  then  ; 

It  is  the  heat  and  naiTowness  of  the 

cage 
That  makes  the  caj)tive  testy  ;  with  free 

wing 
The  world  were  all  one  Araby.     Leave 

me  now. 
Will  you,  companion  to  mj'self,  sir  ? 

Bedingjield.  Will  I  ? 

With  most  exceeding  willingness,  I  will ; 
You  know  I  never  come  till  I  be  call'd. 

[Exit. 


Elizabeth.    It    lies    there   folded  :   is 

there  venom  in  it  ? 
A  snake  ■ —  and  if  I  touch  it,  it  may  sting. 
Come,  come,  the  worst  ! 
Best  wisdom  is  to  know  the  worst  at 

once.  [Reads  : 

"It  is  the  King's  wish  that  you 
should  wed  Prince  Philibert  of  Savoy. 
You  are  to  come  to  Court  on  the  in- 
stant ;  and  think  of  this  in  your  com- 
ing. "M.\KY  THE  Queen." 

Think  !  I  have  many  thoughts  ; 

I  think  there  may  be  birdlime  here  for 

me  ; 
1  think  they  fain  would  liave  me  from 

the  realm  ; 
I   think  the  Queen  may  never  bear  a 

child  ; 
I   think  that   I  may  be  sometime  the 

Queen, 
Then,  Queen  indeed  :  no  foreign  prince 

or  priest 
Should  lill  my  throne,  myself  upon  the 

steps. 
I  think  1  will  not  marry  any  one. 
Specially  not  tins  landless  Philibert 
Of  Savoy  ;  l)ut,  if  Philip  menace  me, 
I  think  that  1  will  play  with  Philibert,— 
As  once  the  holy  father  did  with  mine, 
Before    my    father    married    my   good 

mother,  — ■ 
For  fear  of  Spain. 

Enter  Ladt. 

Lady.    0    Lord  !    your    Grace,   your 
G  race 
I  feel  so  happy  :  it  seems  that  we  shall 

fly 

These  bald,  blank  fields,  and  dance  into 

the  sun 
That  .shines  on  princes. 

Elizabeth.  Yet,  a  moment  since, 

I  wish'd  myself  the  milkmaid  singing 

here, 
To  kiss  and  cuff  among  the  birds  and 

flowers  — 
A  right  rough  life  and  healthful. 

Lady.  But  the  wench 

Hath  her  own  troubles  ;  she  is  weeping 

now  ; 
For  the  wrong  Robin  took  her  at  her 

word. 
Then  the  cow  kick'd,  and  all  her  milk 

was  spilt. 
Your  Highness  such  a  milkmaid  ? 
Elizabeth.  I  had  kept 


508 


QUEEN   MARY. 


My  Robins  and  my  cows  in  sweeter  order 
Had  I  been  such. 

Lady  (slyly).    And  had  your  Grace  a 

Robin. 
Elizabeth.    Come,  come,  you  are  chill 

here  ;  you  want  the  sun 
That  shines  at  court ;  make  ready  for 

the  journej*. 
Pray   God,    we   'scape    the    sunstroke. 

Ready  at  once.  \_Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. —  LONDON.     A  ROOM 
IN  THE  PALACE. 

Lord  Petre  and  Lord  William  How- 
ard. 

Petre.    You    cannot   see   the    Queen. 

Renard  denied  her, 
Ev'n  now  to  me. 

Howard.      Their  Flemish  go-between 
And  all-in-all.     I  came  to  thank   her 

Majesty 
For  freeing  my  friend  Bagenhall  from 

the  Tower  ; 
A  grace  to  me  !     Mercy,  that  herb-of- 

grace. 
Flowers  now  but  seldom. 

Petre.  Only  now  perhaps, 

Because  the  Queen  hath  been  three  days 

in  tears 
For    Philip  's    going  —  like    the   wild 

hedge-rose 
Of  a   soft  winter,  possible,   not  proba- 
ble. 
However,  you  have  prov'n  it. 
Howard.  I  must  see  her. 

Enter  Renard. 

Eenard.    My  Lords,  you  cannot  see 

her  Majesty. 
Howard.    Why  then  the  King  !  for  I 

would  have  him  bring  it 
Home   to   the   leisure   wisdom    of    his 

Queen, 
Before  he  go,  that  since  these  statutes 

past, 
Gardiner  out-Gardiners  Gardiner  in  his 

heat, 
Bonner    cannot    out-Bonner    his    own 

self  — 
Beast  !  —  but   they   play   with   fire    as 

children  do. 
And   burn    the   house.       I    know   that 

these  are  breeding 
A  fierce  resolve  and  fixt  heart-hate  in 

men 


Against  the  King,  the  Queen,  the  Holy 

Father, 
The  faith  itself.     Gan  I  not  see  him  ? 

Eenard.  Not  now. 

And  in  all  this,  ray  Lord,  her  Majesty 
Is  flint  of  flint,  you  may  strike  fire  from 

her. 
Not  hope  to  melt  her.     I  will  give  your 

message. 

[Exeunt  Petre  and  Howard. 

Enter  Philip  (musing). 

Philip.    She   will    not    have    Prince 

Philibert  of  Savoy, 
I  talk'd  with  her  in  vain  —  says  she  will 

live 
And  die  true  maid  —  a  goodly  creature 

too. 
Would  she  had  been  the  Queen  !  yet  she 

must  have  him  ; 
She  troubles  England  :  that  she  breathes 

in  England 
Is  life  and  lungs  to  every  rebel  birth 
That  passes  out  of  embryo. 

Simon  Renard  !  — 
This   Howard,   whom   they  fear,   what 

was  he  saying  ? 
Renard.    What  your  imperial  father 

said,  my  liege. 
To  deal  with  heresy  gentlier.     Gardiner 

burns. 
And  Bonner  burns  ;  and  it  would  seem 

this  people 
Care  more  for  our  brief  life  in  their  wet 

land. 
Than  yours  in  happier  Spain.     I  told 

my  Lord 
He  should  not  vex  her  Highness  ;  she 

would  say 
These  are  the  means  God  works  with, 

that  His  church 
May  flourish. 

Philip.    Ay,  sir,  but  in  statesmanship 
To  strike  too  soon  is  oft  to  miss  the  blow. 
Thou  knovvest  I  bade  my  chaplain,  Cas- 
tro, preach 
Against  these  burnings. 

Eenard.  And  the  Emperor 

Approved  you,  and  when  last  he  wrote, 

declared 
His   comfort  in   your  Grace  that   you 

were  bland 
And  aff'able  to  men  of  all  estates, 
In  hope  to  charm  them  from  their  hate 

of  Spain. 
Philip.    In  hope  to  crush  all  heresy 
under  Spain. 


QUEEN   MARY. 


509 


But,  Renarcl,  I  am  sicker  staying  here 
Than  any  sea  could  make  me  passing 

hence, 
Tho'  I  be  ever  deadly  sick  at  sea. 
So  sick  am  I  witli  biding  for  this  cliild. 
Is  it  the  fashion  in  this  clime  for  women 
To  go  twelve  months  in  bearing  of  a 

child  ? 
The  nurses  yawn'd,  the  cradle  gaped, 

tliey  led 
Processions,    chanted    litanies,    clash'd 

their  bells, 
Shot  off  their  lying  cannon,   and  her 

priests 
Have  preach'd,   the  fools,   of  this  fair 

prince  to  come. 
Till,  by  St.  James,   I   find  myself  the 

fool. 
Why  do  you  lift  your  eyebrow  at  me 

thus  ? 
Renard.    I  never  saw  your  highness 

moved  till  now. 
Philip.    So,   weary  am  I  of  this  wet 

land  of  theirs, 
And  every  soul  of  man  that  breathes 

therein. 
Renard.    ]\Iy  liege,  we  must  not  drop 

the  maslc  before 
The  masquerade  is  over  — 

Phili]).  —  Have  I  dropt  it  ? 

I  have   but  shown  a  loathing  face  to 

you. 
Who  knew  it  from  the  first. 

Enter  Mary. 

Afary  (aside).       With  Renard.    Still 
Parleying  with  Eenard,  all  the  day  with 

Renard, 
And  scarce  a  greeting  all  the  day  for 

me  — 
And  goes  to-morrow.  [Exit  Mary. 

Philip  (to  Renard,  tcho  advances  to 

him).    Well,  sir,  is  there  more  ? 
Renard  (who  has  perceived  the  Queen). 
May  Simon  Renard  speak  a  single 
word  ? 
Philip.    Ay. 

Renard.    And  be  forgiven  for  it  ? 
Philip.  Simon  Renard 

Knows  me  too  well   to  speak  a  .single 

word 
That  could  not  be  fortjiven. 

Renard.  Well,  my  liege, 

Your  Grace  hath  a  most  chaste  and  lov- 
ing wife. 
Philip.    Why   not?     The   Queen    of 
Philip  should  be  chaste. 


Renard.    Ay,  but,  my  Lord,  you  know 

what  Viigil  sings. 
Woman  is  various  and  most  mutable. 
Philip.    She  play  the  harlot  !  never. 
Renard.  No,  sire,  no, 

Not  dream'd  of  by  the  rabidestGospeller. 
Tliere  wasa  paper  thrown  into  the  palace, 
"The  King  hath  weariod  of  his  barren 

bride." 
She  came  upon  it,  read  it,  and  then  rent 

if, 
With  all  the  rage  of  one  who  hates  a 

truth 
He  cannot  but  allow.     Sire,    I   would 

have  you  — 
What  should  I  say,  I  cannot  nick  my 

words  — 
Be   somewhat   less  —  majestic   to   your 

Queen. 
Philip.    Am  I  to  change  my  manners, 

Simon  Renard, 
Because  these  islanders  are  brutal  beasts? 
Or  would  you  have  me  turn  a  sonneteer. 
And  waible  those  brief-siglited  eyes  of 

hers? 
Renard.    Brief-sighted  tho'  they  be, 

I  liave  seen  them,  sire, 
When  you  perchance  were  trifling  roy- 

ally 
With  .some  fair  dame  of  court,  suddenly 

fdl 
With  such  fierce  fire  —  had  it  been  fire 

indeed 
It  would  have  burnt  both  speakers. 
Pliilip.  Ay,  and  then  ? 

Renard.    Sire,  might  it  not  be  policy 

in  some  matter 
Of  small  importance  now  and  then  to 

cede 
A  point  to  her  demand  ? 

Philip.  Well,  I  am  going, 

Renard.    For  should  her  love  when 

you  are  gone,  my  liege. 
Witness  these  papers,  there  will  not  be 

wanting 
Those  that  will  urge  her  injury  —  should 

her  love  — 
And  I  have  known  such  women  more 

than  one  — 
Veer  to  the  counterpoint,  and  jealousy 
Hath  in  it  an  alchemic  force  to  liise 
Almost  into  one  metal  love  and  hate,  — 
And  she  impress  her  wrongs  upon  her 

Council, 
And  these  again  upon  her  Parliaiuent  — 
We  are  not  loved  here,  and  would  bo 

then  perhaps 


510 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Not  so  well  holpen  in  our  wars  with 

France, 
As  else  Ave  might  be  —  here  she  comes. 
Enter  Mart.  ^ 

Marij.  0  Philip  ! 

Nay,  must  you  go  indeed  ? 

Philip.  Madam,  1  must. 

Mai-y.    The  parting  of  a  husband  and 
a  wife 
Is  like  the  cleaving  of  a  heart  ;  one  half 
Will  flutter  here,  one  there. 

Philip.  You  say  true,  Madam. 

Mary.    The  Holy  Virgin  will  not  have 
me  yet 
Lose  the  sweet  hope  that  I  may  bear  a 

prince. 
If  s\ich  a  prince  were  born  and  you  not 
here  ! 
Philip.    I   should  be  here  if  such  a 

prince  were  born. 
Mary.    But  must  you  go  ? 
Philip.    Madam,  you  know  my  father, 
Retiring  into  cloistral  solitude 
To  yield  the  remnant  of  his  years  to 

heaven. 
Will  shift  the  yoke  and  weight  of  all  the 

world 
From  off  his  neck  to  mine.     We  meet 

at  Brussels. 
But  since  mine  absence  will  not  be  for 

long. 
Your  Majesty  shall  go  to  Dover  with  me, 
And  wait  my  coming  back. 

Mary.  To  Dover  ?  no, 

I  am  too  feeble.     I  will  go  to  Greenwich, 
So  you  will  have  me  with  you  ;   and 

there  watch 
All  that  is  gracious  in  the  breath  of 

heaven 
Draw  with  your  sails  from  our  poor  land, 

and  pass 
And  leave  me,  Philip,  with  my  prayers 
for  you. 
Philip.    And  doubtless  I  shall  profit 

by  your  prayers. 
Mary.    Methinks  thatwould  you  tarry 
one  day  more 
(The  news  was  sudden)  I  could  mould 

myself 
To  bear  your  going  better  ;  will  you  do 
it? 
Philip.    Madam,  a  day  may  sink  or 

save  a  realm. 
Mary.    A  day  may  save  a  heart  from 

breaking  too. 
Philip.    Well,   Simon   Renard,   shall 
we  stop  a  day  ? 


Renard.    Your  Grace's  business  will 

not  suffer,  sire, 
For  one  day  more,  so  far  as  I  can  tell. 
Philip.    Then  one  day  more  to  please 

her  Majesty. 
Mary.    The   sunshine   sweeps    across 

my  life  again. 

0  if  I  knew  you  felt  this  parting,  Philip, 
As  I  do  ! 

Philip.    By  St.  James  I  do  protest. 
Upon  the  faith  and  honor  of  a  Spaniard, 

1  am  vastly  grieved  to  leave  your  Maj- 

esty. 
Simon,  is  sujiper  ready  ? 

Renard.  Ay,  my  liege, 

I  saw  the  covers  laying. 

Philip.         Let  us  have  it.     \_Exeunt, 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  —A  ROOM  IN  THE  PAL- 
ACE. 

Mary,  Cardinal  Pole. 

Mary.    What  have  you  there  ? 
Pole.  So  please  your  Majesty, 

A  long  petition  from  the  foreign  exiles 
To  spare  the  life  of  Cranmer.     Bishop 

Thirlby, 
And  my  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 

Howard, 
Crave,   in  the  same  cause,  hearing   of 

your  Grace. 
Hath  he  not  written    himself — infat- 
uated — • 
To  sue  you  for  his  life  ? 

Mary.  His  life  ?     Oh,  no  ; 

Not  sued  for  that  —  he  knows  it  were  in 

vain. 
But  so  much  of  the  anti-papal  leaven 
Works  in  him  yet,  he  hath  pray'd  me 

not  to  sully 
Mine  own  prerogative,  and  degrade  the 

realm 
By  seeking  justice  at  a  stranger's  hand 
Against  my  natural  subject.     King  and 

Queen, 
To  whom  he  owes  his  loyalty  after  God, 
Shall  these   accuse    him  to  a  foreign 

prince  ? 
Death  would  not  grieve  him  more.     I 

cannot  be 
True  to  this  realm  of  England  and  the 

Pope 
Together,  says  the  heretic. 


QUEEN    MARY. 


511 


Pole.  And  there  errs  ; 

As  he  hath  ever  err'd  thro'  vanity. 
A  secular  kingdom  is  but  as  the  body 
Lacking  a  soul ;  and  in  itself  a  beast. 
The   Holy   Father   in   a   secular   king- 
dom 
Is  as  the  soul  descending  out  of  heaven 
Into  a  body  generate. 

Mary.  AVrite  to  him,  then. 

Pole.    I  will. 

Mary.  And  sharply,  Pole. 

Pole.        Here  come  the  Ci'anmerites  ! 

Enter  Thirlby,  Lord  Paget,  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard. 

Howard.    Health  to  your  Grace.  Good- 
morrow,  my  Lord  Cardinal ; 
We  make  our  humble  prayer  unto  your 

Grace 
That  Cranmer  may  withdraw  to  foreign 

parts, 
Or  into  private  life  within  the  realm. 
In  several  bills  and  declarations,  Mad- 
am, 
He  hath  recanted  all  his  heresies. 

Paget.    Ay,  ay  ;  if  Bonner  have  not 

forged  the  bills.  [Aside. 

Mary.    Did  not  More  die,  and  Fisher  ? 

he  must  burn. 
Howard.    He  hath  recanted.  Madam. 
Mary.  The  better  for  him. 

He  burns  in  Purgatory,  not  in  Hell. 
Howard.    Ay,    ay,   your  Grace  ;    but 
it  was  never  seen 
That  any  one  recanting  thus  at  full. 
As  Cranmer  hath,  came  to  the   fire  on 
earth. 
Mary.    It  will  be  seen  now,  then. 
Thirlby.  0  Madam,  Madam  ! 

I  thus  implore  you,  low  upon  my  knees. 
To  reach   the   hand   of  mercy   to   my 

friend. 
I  have  err'd  with  him  ;  with  him  I  have 

recanted. 
What  human  reason  is  there  why  my 

friend 
Should  meet  with  lesser  mercy  than  my- 
self? 
Mary.    My  Lord  of  Ely,  this.     After 
a  riot 
We  hang  the  leaders,  let  their  follow- 
ing go. 
Cranmer  is  head  and   father   of  these 

heresies. 
New  learning  as  they  call  it ;  yea,  may 

God 
Forget  me  at  most  need  when  I  forget 


Her  foul  divorce  —  my  sainted  mcthet 
—  No!  — 
Howard.    Ay,  ay,  but  mighty  doctors 
doubted  there. 

The    Pope   himself  waver'd  ;  and  more 
than  one 

Row'd    in    that    galley  —  Gardiner  tc 
wit. 

Whom  truly  I  deny  not  to  have  been 

Your  faithful   friend  and  trust}'  coun. 
cillor. 

Hath  not  your  Highness  ever  read  his 
book. 

His  tractate  upon  True  Obedience, 

Writ  by  himself  and  Bonner  ? 

Mary.  I  will  take 

Such  order  with  all  bad,  heretical  books 

That  none  shall  hold  them  in  his  house 
and  live. 

Henceforward.     No,  my  Lord. 

Howard.  Then  never  read  it. 

The  truth  is  here.     Your  father  was  a 
man 

Of  such  colossal  kinghood,  yet  so  cour- 
teous. 

Except  when  wroth,  you  scarce   could 
meet  his  eye 

And  hold  your  own  ;  and  were  he  wroth 
indeed. 

You  held  it  less,  or  not  at  all.     I  .say, 

Your  father  had  a  will  that  beat  men 
down  ; 

Your  father  had  a  brain  that  beat  men 
down  — 
Pole.    Not  me,  my  Lord. 
Hovxird.    No,  for  you  were  not  here  ; 

You   sit    upon    this    fallen    Cranmer's 
throne  ; 

And   it   would  more  become  you,    my 
Lord  Legate, 

To  join  a   voice,    so  potent   with   her 
Highness, 

To  ours  in  plea  for  Cranmer  than  to 
stand 

On  naked  self-assertion. 

Mojry.  All  youi'  voices 

Are  waves  on  flint.     The  heretic  must 
burn. 
Howard.    Yetonce  he  saved  your  Maj- 
esty's own  life  ; 

Stood  out  against  the  King  in  your  be- 
half. 

At  his  own  peril. 
I      Mary.  I  know  not  if  he  did  ; 

j  And  if  he  did  I  care  not,  my  Lord  How- 
ard. 
)  My  life  is  not  so  happy,  no  such  boon, 


512 


QUEEN   MARY. 


That  I  should  spare   to  take  a  heretic 

priest's, 
Who  saved  it  or  not  saved.     Why  do 

you  vex  me  ? 
Paget.    Yet  to  save  Cranmer  were  to 

save  the  Church, 
Your  Majesty's  I  mean  ;  he  is  effaced. 
Self-blotted   out ;    so   wounded   in   his 

honor, 
He  can  but  creep  down  into  some  dark 

hole 
Like  a  hurt  beast,  and  hide  himself  and 

die  ; 
But  if  you  burn  him,  — well,  your  High- 
ness knows 
The  saying,  "  JMartyr's  blood  —  seed  of 

the  Chureli." 
Mary.    Of  the  true  Church  ;  but  his  is 

none,  nor  will  be. 
You  are  too   politic  for   me,  my    Lord 

Paget. 
And  if  he  have  to  live  so  loath'd  a  life. 
It   were    more    meiciful    to   burn    him 

now. 
Thirlby.    0  yet  relent.    0,  Madam,  if 

you  knew  him 
As  I  do,  ever  gentle,  and  so  gracious. 
With  all  his  learning  — 

Mary.  Yet  a  heretic  .still. 

His   learning  makes   his   burning    the 

more  just. 
Thirlby.    So  worshipt  of  all  those  that 

came  across  him  ; 
The  stranger  at  his  hearth,  and  all  his 

house  — 
Mary.    His  children   and  his  concu- 
bine, belike. 
Thirlby.    To  do  him  any  wrong  was 

to  beget 
A  kindness  from  him,  for  his  heart  was 

rich, 
Of  such  fine  mould,  that  if  you  sow'd 

therein 
The  seed  of  Hate,  it  blossom'd  Charity. 
Pole.    "After   his  kind  it  costs  him 

nothing,"  there  's 
An  old  world  English  adage  to  the  point. 
These  are  but  natural  graces,  my  good 

Bishop, 
Which    in   the   Catholic  garden  are  as 

flowers. 
But  on  the  heretic  dunghill  only  weeds. 
Uoivard.    Such  weeds  make  dunghills 

gracious. 
Mary.  Enough,  my  Lords. 

It    is    God's   will,    the    Holy    Father's 

will. 


And   Philip's  will,  and   mine,  that  he 

should  burn. 
He  is  pronounced  anathema. 

Hoivard.  Farewell,  Madam, 

God  giant   you  amplei-  mercy  at  youi 

call 
Than  you  have  shown  to  Cranmer. 

\_Excunt  Lords. 
Pole.  After  this, 

Your  Grace  will   hardly   care   to  over- 
look 
This  same  petition  of  the  foreign  exiles, 
For  Cranmer's  life. 
Mary.       Make  out  the  writ  to-night. 
\_Exeunt. 


SCENE  II. 


OXFORD.  CRANMER  IN 

PRISON. 


Cranmer.    Last  night,  I  aream'd  the 

fagots  were  alight. 
And   that   myself  was   fasten'd   to  the 

stake. 
And  found  it  all  a  visionary  flame, 
Cool  as  the  light  in  old  decaying  wood  ; 
And  then  King  Harry  look'd  from  out 

a  cloud, 
And  bade  me  have  good  courage  ;  and  I 

heard 
An   angel   cr)"^,   "there  is  more  joy  in 

Heaven,"  — 
And  after  that,  the  trumpet  of  the  dead. 
[  Trumjycts  without. 
Why,  there  are  trumpets  blowing  now  : 

what  is  it  ? 

Enter  Father  Cole. 

Cole.    Cranmer,    I    come  to  question 

you  again  ; 
Have  you  remain'd  in  the  true  Catholic 

Faith 
I  left  you  in  ? 

Cranmer.     In  the  true  Catholic  faith. 
By  Heaven's  grace,  1  am  more  and  more 

con  firm' d. 
Why  are  the  trumpets  blowing.  Father 

Cole  ? 
Cole.    Cranmer,  it  is  decided  by  the 

Council 
That  you  to-day  should  read  your  recan- 
tation 
Before  the  people  in  St.  Mary's  Church. 
And  there  be  many  heretics  in  the  town. 
Who  loathe  you  for  your  late  return  to 

Rome, 
And  might  assail  you  passing  through 

the  street. 


QUEEN    MARY. 


5i; 


And  tear  you  piecemeal :  so  you  have  a 
guard. 
Cranmer.    Or  seek  to  rescue  ine.     1 

tliauk  the  CounciL 
Cole.    Do  you  lack  any  money  ? 
Cranmer.  ^'ay,  why  should  I  ? 

The  prison  fare  is  good  enough  ior  me. 
Cole.    Aj',  but  to  give  the  poor. 
Cranmer.  Hand  it  me,  then  ! 

I  thank  you. 

Cole.  For  a  little  space,  farewell ; 

Until  I  see  you  in  St.  Mary's  Church. 
[Exit  Cole. 
Cranmer,    It  is  against  all  precedent 
to  burn 
One   who   recants  ;  they  mean   to  par- 
don me. 
To  give  the  poor  —  they  give  the  poor 

who  die. 
Well,   burn  me  or  not  burn  me  I  am 

fixt  ; 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass  : 
A  holy  supper,  not  a  saciifice  ; 
No  man  I'au    make  his  Maker  —  Villa 
Garcia. 

Enter  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garciti.    Pray  you  write  out  this 

paper  for  me,  Cranmer. 
Cranmer.    Ha\e  I  not  writ  enough  to 

satisfy  you  ? 
Villa  Garcia.    It  is  the  last. 
Cranmer.  Give  it  me,  then. 

[He  inifcs. 
Villa  Garcia.  Now  sign. 

Cranmer.    I  have  sign'd  enough,  and 

I  will  sign  no  more. 
Villa  Garcia.    It  isno  more  than  what 
you  have  sign'd  already, 
The  public  form  thereof. 

Cranmer.  It  may  be  so  ; 

I  sign  it  with  my  presence,  if  I  read  it. 

Villa  Garcia.    But  this  is  idle  of  you. 

Well,  sir,  well, 

you  are  to  beg  tlie  people  to  pray  for 

you  ; 
Exhort   them  to  a  pure  and  virtuous 

life  ; 
Declare  the  Queen's  right  to  the  throne ; 

confess 
Your   faith  before  all  hearers :  and  re- 
tract 
That  Eucharistic  doctrine  in  your  book. 
Will  you  not  sign  it  now  ? 

Cranmer.  No,  Villa  Garcia, 

I  sign  no  more.     Will  they  have  mercy 
ou  me  ? 


Villa  Garcia,    Have  you  good  hopes 

of  mercy  !     So,  farewell.     [Exit. 
Cranmer.    Good   hopes,    not    theirs, 

have  I  that  I  am  fixt, 
Fixt  beyond   fall  ;  however,  in  strangt 

hours. 
After  the  long  brain-dazing  colloquies, 
And  thousand-times  recurring  argument 
Of  those  two  friars  ever  in  my  jirison, 
When  left  alone  in  my  despondency. 
Without   a   friend,  a   book,    my    faith 

would  seem 
Dead    or   half-drown'd,    or   else    swam 

heavily 
Against   tlie  huge   corruptions  of   the 

Church, 
Monsters  of  mistradition,  old  enough 
To    scai'e   me   into    dreaming,    "  wliat 

am  1, 
Cranmer,    against    whole    ages?"    was 

it  so, 
Or  am  I   slandering  my   most  inward 

friend. 
To  veil  the  fault  of  my  most  outward 

foe  — 
Tlie  soft  and  tremulous  cowaid  in  the 

flesh  ? 

0  higher,  holier,  earlier,  purer  church, 

1  have  found  thee  and  not  leave  thee  any 

more. 
It  is  but  a  communion,  not  a  mass  — 
No  sacrifice,  but  a  life-giving  feast  ! 
(Writes).     So,    so  ;  this   will    I  say — • 

thus  will  I  pray. 

[Puts  nj)  the  paper. 

Enter  Bonner. 

Bonner.    Good-day,  old  fiiend  ;  what, 
you  look  somewhat  worn  -, 
And  yet  it  is  a  day  to  test  your  health 
Ev'n  at  the  best  :  I  scarce  have  spokerj 

with  you 
Since   when?  —  j'our  degradation.     A' 

your  trial 
Never  stood  up  a  bolder  man  than  you 
You  would  not  cap  the  Pope's  commis- 
sioner— 
Your  learning,  and  your  stotitness,  and 

j'our  heresy, 
Dumfounded  half  of  us.     So,  after  thatj 
We  had  to  dis-archbishop  and  unlord. 
And   make   j'oii   simple    Cranmer   once 

again. 
The   conmion    barber   dipt   j'our  hair, 

and  1 
Scraped  from  your  finger-points  the  holy 
oil ; 


514 


QUEEN   MAEY. 


And  worse  than  all,  you  had  to  kneel  to 

me  ; 
Which  was  not  pleasant  for  you,  Mas- 
ter Cranmer. 
Now  you,  that  would  not  recognize  the 

Pope, 
And  you,  that  would  not  own  the  Real 

Presence, 
Have  found  a  real  presence  in  the  stake, 
Which  frights  you  back  into  the  ancient 

faith  ; 
And  so  you  have  recanted  to  the  Po[)e, 
How    are    the    mighty    fallen.    Master 

Cranmer ! 
Cranmer.    You  have  been  more  fierce 

against  the  Pope  than  I  ; 
But  why  fling  back  the  stone  he  strikes 

me  with?  [Aside. 

0  Bonner,  if  I  ever  did  you  kindness  — 
Power  hath  been  given  you  to  try  faith 

by  fire  — 
Pray   you,    remembering  how   yourself 

have  changed, 
Be  somewhat  pitiful,  after  I  have  gone, 
To  the  poor  flock— -to  women  and  to 

children  — 
That  when  I  was  archbishop  held  with 

me. 
Bonner.    Ay  —  gentle    as    they    call 

you  —  live  or  die  ! 
Pitiful  to  this  pitiful  heresy  ? 

1  must  obey  the  Queen   and  Council, 

man. 
Win  thro'  this  day  with  honor  to  vour- 

self, 
And  I  '11  say  something  for  you  —  so  — 

good-by.  [Exit. 

Cranmer.    This  hard  coarse  man  of  old 

hath  crouch'd  to  me 
Till  I  myself  was  half  ashamed  for  him. 

Enter  Thirlbt. 

Weep  not,  good  Thirlby. 

Thirlby.        Oh,  my  Lord,  my  Lord  ! 
My  heart  is  no  such  block  as  Bonner's 

is  : 
Who  would  not  weep? 

Crtawier.    Why   do   you  so  my-lord 
me, 
Who  am  disgraced  ? 

Thirlby.    On    earth ;    but    saved    in 
heaven 
By  your  recanting. 

Cranmer.    Will  they  bum  me,  Thirl- 
by? 
Thirlby.    Alas,  they  will ;  these  burn- 
ings will  not  help 


The  purpose  of  the  faith  ;  but  my  pool 

voice 
Against  them  is  a  whisper  to  the  roar 
Of  a  spring-tide. 

Cranmer.    And  they  will  surely  burn 

me  ? 
Thirlby.    Ay  ;  and  besides,  will  have 

you  in  the  church 
Rejieat  your  recantation  in  the  ears 
Of  all  men,  to  the  saving  of  their  souls, 
Before  your  execution.     May  God  help 

you 
Thro'  that  hard  hour. 

Cranmer.    And  may  God  bless  you, 

Thirlby. 
Well,   they  shall  hear  my  recantation 

there.  [Exit  Thirlby. 

Disgraced,  dishonor'd  !  —  not  by  them, 

indeed, 
By  mine  own  self  —  b}^  mine  own  hand  ! 

0  thin-skinn'd  hand  and  jutting  veins, 

't  was  you 
That  sign'd  the  burning  of  poor  Joan  of 

Kent ; 
But  then  she  was  a  witch.     You  ha"e 

written  much. 
But  you  were  never  raised  to  plead  for 

Frith, 
Whose  dogmas  I  have  reach'd  :  he  was 

deliver'd 
To  the  secular  arm  to  burn  ;  and  there 

was  Lambert  ; 
Who  can  foresee  himself?  truly  these 

burnings. 
As  Thirlby  says,  are  profitless  to  the 

burners, 
And  help  the  other  side.     You   shall 

burn  too. 
Burn  first  when  I  am  burnt. 
Fire  —  inch  by  inch  to  die  in  agony  1 

Latimer 
Had  a  brief  end  —  not  Ridley.     Hooper 

burn'd 
Three-quarters   of  an   hour.     Will  my 

fagots 
Be  wet   as  his  were  ?     It  is  a  day  of 

rain. 

1  will  not  muse  upon  it. 

My  fancy  takes  the  burner's  part,  and 

makes 
The  fire  seem  even  crueller  than  it  is. 
No,  I  not  doubt  that  God  will  give  me 

strength, 
Albeit  I  have  denied  him. 

Enter  SOTO  and  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.  We  are  ready 


QUEEN   MAEY. 


515 


To  take  you  to  St.  Mary's,  Master  Cran- 
mer. 
Cranmer.    And  I  :  lead  on  ;  ye  loose 
me  from  my  bonds.  \_Excunt. 

SCENE  III. —ST.  MARY'S  CHURCH. 

Cole  in  the  Pulpit,  Lord  Williams  of 
Thame  presiding.  Lord  William 
Howard,  Lord  Paget,  and  others, 
Cra>'mer  enters  between  Soto  and  Villa 
Garcia,  and  the  u-hole  Choir  strike  iqy 
"  Nunc  Dimittis."  Cranmer  is  set 
upon  a  Scaffold  before  the  people. 

Cole.    Behold  him  — 

[.4  pause ;  people  in  the  foreground. 
People.    Oh,  unhappy  sight  ! 
First  Protestant.    See  how  the   tears 

run  down  his  fatherly  face. 
Second  Protestant.    James,  didst  thou 
ever  see  a  caiTion  crow 
Stand  watching  a  sick  beast  before  he 
dies  ? 
First    Protestant.    Him     pcrch'd     up 
tliere  ?     I  wish  some  thunderbolt 
Would  make  this  Cole  a  cinder,  pulpit 
and  all. 
Cole.    Behold  him,  brethren  :  he  hath 
cause  to  weep  !  — 
So  have  we  all  :  wcej)  with  him  if  ye 

will, 
Yet  — 

It  is  expedient  for  one  man  to  die. 
Yea,  for  the  people,  lest  the  people  die. 
Yet  wherefore  should  he  die  that  hath 

return'd 
To  the  one  Catholic  Universal  Church, 
Repentant  of  his  errors  ? 

Protestant  Murmurs.    Ay,  tell  us  that. 
Cole.    Those  of  the  wrong  side  will 
despise  the  man, 
Deeming  him  one  that  thro'  the  fear  nf 

death 
Gave  up  his  cause,  except  he  seal  his 

faith 
In  sight  of  all  with  flaming  niart3'rdom. 
Cranmer.    Ay. 

Cole.    Ye  hear  him,  and  albeit  there 
may  seem 
According  to  the  canons  pardon  due 
To  him  that  so  repents,  yet  are  there 

causes 
Wherefore  our  Queen   and  Council   at 

this  time 
Adjudge  him  to  the  death.     He  hath 

been  a  traitor, 
A  shaker  and  confounder  of  the  realm  ; 


And  when  the  King's  divorce  was  sued 
at  Rome, 

He  here,  this  heretic  metropolitan, 

As  if  he  had  been  the  Holy  Father,  sat 

And  judged  it.     Did  I  call  him  heretic? 

A  huge  heresiarch  !  never  was  it  known 

That  any  man  so  w-riting,  preaching  so. 

So  poisoning  the  Church,  so  long  con- 
tinuing, 

Hath  fouiul  his  pardon  ;    therefore  he 
must  die, 

For  warning  and  example. 

Other  reasons 

There  be  for  this  man's  ending,  which 
our  Queen 

And  Council  at  this  present  deem  it  not 

Expedient  to  be  known. 

Protestant  Murmurs.     I  warrant  you. 
Cole.    Take  therefore,  all,  example  by 
this  man. 

For  if  our  Holy  Queen  not  pardon  him, 

Much   less   shall  others   in   like   cause 
escape. 

That  all  of  you,  the  highest  as  the  low- 
est, 

May  learn  there  is  no  power  against  the 
Lord. 

There  stands  a  man,  once  of  so  high 
degi-ee, 

Chief  prelate  of  our  Church,  archbishop, 
first 

In  Council,  second  person  in  the  realm, 

Friend    for  so   long  time  of  a  mighty 
King; 

And  now  ye  see  downfallen  and  debased 

From   councillor  to  caitiff — fallen   so 
low. 

The  leprous  flutterings  of  the  byway, 
scum 

And  offal  of  the  city  would  not  change 

Estates  with  him  ;  in  brief,  so  miser- 
able. 

There  is  no  hope  of  better  left  for  him, 

No  place  for  worse. 

Yet,  Cranmer,  be  thou  glad. 

This  is  the  work  of  God.     He  is  glori- 
fied 

In   thy  conversion  :    lo  !    thou   art   re- 
claim'd  ; 

He  brings  thee  home  :  nor  fear  but  that 
to-day 

Thou  shalt  receive  the  penitent  thief's 
award, 

And  be  with  Christ  the  Lord  in  Para- 
dise. 

Remember  how  God  made  the  fierce  fire 
seem 


516 


QUEEN   MARY. 


To  those  three  children  like  a  pleasant 

dew. 
Remember,  too, 
The    triumph   of    St.    Andrew   on    his 

cross, 
The   patience  of   St.    Lawrence  in   the 

fire. 
Thus,  if  thou   call  on  God  and  all  the 

saints, 
God    will    beat    down    the    fury    of    the 

flame, 
Or  give  thee  saintly  strength  to  under- 
go. 
And  for  thy  soul  shall  masses  here  be 

sun;L? 
By  every    priest  in   Oxford.     Pray  for 

him. 
Cranmer.      Ay,    one     and    all,    dear 

brothers,  pray  for  me  ; 
Pray  witli  one   breath    one    heart,  one 

soul,  for  me. 
Cole.     And  now,  lest  any  one  among 

you  doubt 
The  man's  conversion   and    remorse   of 

heart, 
Yourselves      shall     hear     liim     speak. 

Speak,  Master  Cranmer, 
Fulfil  your  promise  made  me,  and  pro- 
claim 
Your  true  undoubted  faith,  that  all  may 

hear. 
Cranmer.     And   that  I  will.     O  God, 

Father  of  Heaven ! 

0  Son  of  God,  Redeemer  of  the  world  ! 
(^    Uoly  Ghost!  proceeding  from  them 

both. 
Three  persons  and  one  God,  have  mercy 

on  me, 
Most  nii-erable  sinner,  wretched  man. 

1  have   offended    against    heaven    and 

eartli 
More   grievously  than    any  tongue  can 

tell. 
Then  whither  should  I  flee  for  any  help? 
I  am  ashamed  to  lift  my  eyes  to  heaven, 
And  I  can  find  no  refuge  upon  earth. 
Shall  I  despair  then  ?  —  God  forbid  !     0 

(iod. 
For  thou  art  merciful,  refusing  none 
That   come   to   Thee   for   succor,   unto 

Thee, 
Therefore,  I  come;  humble    myself   to 

Thee; 
Sayinjx,  O  Lord  God,  although  my  sins 

be  great. 
For  thy   great   mercy  have   mercy !     0 

God  the  Son, 


Not  for  slight  faults  alone,  when  thou 

becamest 
Man   in  the  Flesh,  was  the  great  mys- 
tery wrought ; 
0  God  the  Father,  not  for  little  sins 
Didst  thou  yield  up  thy  Son  to  human 

death"; 
But   for    the   greatest   sin   that  can  be 

siuu'd, 
Yea,  even  such  as  mine,  incalculable, 
Unpardonable,  —  sin  a.izain.st  the  light, 
The  truth  of  God,  which  I  had  proven 

and  known. 
Thy  mercy  must  be  greater  than  all  sin. 
Forgive   me,   Father,    for   no    merit   of 

mine. 
But  that  Thy  name  by  man  be  glorified. 
And  Thy  most  blessed  Son's,  who  died 

for  man. 
Good  people,   every    man  at  time  of 

death 
Would  fain  set  forth  some  saying  that 

may  live 
After  his  death  and  better  humankind  ; 
For  death  gives  life's  last  word  a  power 

to  live. 
And,  like  the  stone-cut  epitaph,  remain 
After  the  vanish'd  voice,  and  speak  to 

men. 
God  grant  me  grace  to  glorify  my  God  ! 
And  first  I  say  it  is  a  grievous  case, 
Many  so  dote  upcm  ihis  bubble  world. 
Whose   colors  in  a  moment  break    and 

fly, 

They  care  for  nothing  else.  What  saith 
St.  John  :  — 

"  Love  of  this  world  is  hatred  against 
God." 

Again,  I  pray  you  all  that,  next  to  God, 

Y'ou  do  unmurmuringly  and  willingly 

Obey  your  King  and  Queen,  and  not  for 
dread 

Of  these  alone,  but  from  the  fear  of  Him 

Who.se  ministers  they  be  to  govern  you. 

Thirdly,  I  pray  you  all  to  love  together 

Like  brethren ; 'yet  what  hatred  Chris- 
tian men 

Bear  to  each  other,  seeming  not  as 
brethren, 

But  mortal  foes!  But  do  you  good  to 
all 

As  much  as  in  you  lieth.  Hurt  no  man 
more 

Than  you  would  harm  your  loving  nat- 
ural brother 

Of  the  same  roof,  same  breast.  If  any 
do. 


QUEEN    JIARY. 


517 


Albeit  he  think  himself  at  home  with 

God, 
Of  this  be  sure,  he  is  whole  worlds  away. 
Protestant  Murmurs.    What    sort    of 
brothers  then  be  those  that  lust 
To  burn  each  other  ? 

JFilliams.      Peace  among  you,  there. 

Cranmcr.    Fourthly,    to    those    that 

own  exceeding  wealth, 

Remember  that  sore  saying  spoken  once 

By  Him  that  was  the  truth,  "how  liard 

it  is 
For  the  rich  man  to  enter  into  Heaven  "  ; 
Let  all  rich  men  remember  that  hard 

word. 
I  have  not  time  for  more  :  if  ever,  now 
Let  them  How  forth  in  charity,  seeing 

now 
The  poor  so  man}%  and  all  food  so  dear. 
Long  have  I  lain  in  prison,  yet  have 

heartl 
Of  all  their  wretchedness.     Give  to  the 

poor, 
Ye  give  to  God.     He  is  with  us  in  the 
poor. 
And  now,  and  forasmuch  as  I  have 
come 
To  the  last  end  of  life,  and  thereupon 
Hangs  all  my  past,  and  all  my  life  to  be, 
Either  to  live   with  Christ  in  Heaven 

with  joy, 
Or  to  be  still  in  pain  with  devils  in  hell  ; 
And,  seeing  in  a  moment,  I  shall  find 

[Pointing  upivards. 
Heaven  or  else  hell  ready  to  swallow 
me,  [Pointing  doicmcards. 

I  shall  declare  to  you  my  very  faith 
Without  all  color. 

Cole.       Hear  him,  my  good  brethren. 
Cranmer.    I  do  believe  in  God,  Father 
of  all ; 
In  every  article  of  the  Catholic  faith. 
And  every  syllable  taught   us   by  our 

Lord, 
His  prophets,  and  apostles,  in  the  Tes- 
taments, 
Both  Old  and  New. 

Cole.  Be  plainer,  Ma.ster  Cranmer. 
Cranmer.  And  now  I  come  to  the 
great  cause  that  weighs 
Upon  my  conscience  more  than  any  thing 
Or  said  or  done  in  all  my  life  by  me  ; 
For  there  be  writings  I  have  set  abroad 
Against  the  truth   I   knew  within  my 

heart. 
Written  for  fear  of  death,  to  save  my 
life, 


If  tliat  might  be  ;   the  papers  by  my 

hand 
Sign'd  since  my  degradation  —  by  this 
hand 

[Holding  out  his  right  hand. 
AVritten  and  sign'd  —  I  here  renounce 

them  all  ; 
And,  since  my  liand  offended,  having 

written 
Against  my  lieart,  my  hand  shall  first 

be  burnt, 
So  I  may  come  to  the  fire. 

[Dead  silence. 
Protestant  murmurs. 

First  Protestant.    I  knew  it  would  be 

so. 
Second  Protestant.    Our   prayers    are 

heard  ! 
Third  Protestant.    God  bless  him  ! 
Catholic  ihirmurs.    Out  upon  him  ! 
out  upon  him  ! 
Liar !  dissembler !  traitor !  to  the  fire ! 
Williams   {raising    his    voice).    You 
know  that  you  recanted  all  you 
said 
Touching  the  sacrament  in  that  same 

book 
You  wrote  against  my  Lord   of  Win- 
chester ; 
Dissemble  not ;  play  the  plain  Christian 
man. 
Cranmcr.    Alas,  my  Lord, 
I  have  been  a  man  loved  plainness  all 

my  life ; 
1  did  dissemble,  but  the  hour  has  come 
For  utter  truth  and  plainness  ;  where- 
fore, I  sa}', 
I  hold  by  all  I  wrote  within  that  book. 
Moreover, 

As  for  the  Pope  I  count  him  Antichrist, 
With  all  his  devil's  doctrines  ;  and  re- 
fuse. 
Reject  him,  and  abhor  him.    1  have  said. 
Cries  (on  all  sides).    Pull  him  down  ! 

Away  with  him. 
Cole.    Ay,   stop  the  heretic's  mouth. 

Hale  him  away. 
JFilliams.    Haiin  him  not,  harm  him 
not,  have  him  to  the  tire. 

[Cranmer  goes  oict  betiveen  Two 
Friars,  smiling;  hands  are  reached 
to  him  from  the  crov:d.  LoRC 
William  Howard  and  Lord 
Paget  are  left  alone  in  the  church. 

Paget.    The  nave  and  aisles  all  empty 
as  a  fool's  jest  1 


518 


QUEEN   MAKY. 


No,    here  's    Lord    William    Howard. 

What,  my  Lord, 

You  have  not  gone  to  see  the  burning  ? 

Howard.  Fie ! 

To  stand  at  ease,  and  stare  as  at  a  show, 

And  watch  a  good  man  burn.     Never 

again. 
I  saw  the  deaths  of  Latimer  and  Ridley. 
Moreover  tho'  a  Catholic,  I  would  not, 
For   the   pure   honor   of    our   common 

nature. 
Hear  what  I  might  —  anotlier  recanta- 
tion 
Of  Cranmer  at  the  stake. 

Paget.  You  'd  not  hear  that. 

He  pass'd  out  smiling,  and  he  walk'd 

upright ; 
His  eye  was  like  a  soldier's,  whom  the 

general 
He  looks  to  and  he  leans  on  as  his  God, 
Hath  rated  for  some  backwardness  and 

bidd'n  him 
Charge  one  against  a  thousand,  and  the 

man 
Hurls  his  soil'd  life  against  the  pikes 

and  dies. 
Howard.    Yet  that  he  might  not  after 

all  those  papers 
Of  recantation  yield  again,  who  knows  ? 
Paget.    Papers  of  recantation,  think 

you  then 
That  Cranmer  read  all  papers  that  he 

sign'd  ? 
Or  sign'd  all  those  they  tell  us  that  he 

sign'd  ? 
Nay,    I   trow  not  :  and  you  shall  see, 

my  Lord, 
That  howsoever  hero-like  the  man 
Dies  in  the  tire,  this  Bonner  or  another 
Will  in  some,  lying  fashion  misreport 
His  ending  to  the  glory  of  their  church. 
And  you  saw  Latimer  and  Ridley  die  ? 
Latimer  was  eighty,  was  he  not  ?  his  best 
Of  life  was  over  then. 

Howard.  His  eighty  years 

Look'd  somewhat  crooked  on  him  in  his 

frieze  ; 
But  after  they  had  stript  him  to  his 

shroud, 
He  stood  r;pright,  a  lad  of  twenty-one. 
And  gather'd  with  his  hands  the  start- 
ing flame, 
And  wash'd  his  hands  and  all  his  face 

therein. 
Until  the  powder  suddenly  blew  him 

dead. 
Bidley  was  longer  burning  ;  but  he  died 


As  manfully  and  boldly,  and  'fore  God, 
I  know  them  heretics,  but  right  Eng- 
lish ones. 
If  ever,  as  heaven  grant,  we  clash  with 

Spain, 
Our   Ridley-soldiers  and  our  Latimer- 

sailors 
Will  teach  her  something. 

Paget.  Your  mild  Legate  Pole 

Will  tell  you  that  the  devil  helpt  them 

thro'  it. 
[A  murmur  of  tJie  Crowd  in  the  dis'^ 

tance. 
Hark,  how  those  Roman  wolfdogs  howl 

and  bay  him. 
Howard.    Might  it  not  be  the  other 

side  rejoicing 
In  his  brave  end  ? 
Paget.    They    are    too    crush'd,    too 

broken. 
They  can  but  weep  in  silence. 

Hoioard.  Ay,  ay,  Paget, 

They  have  brought  it  in  large  measure 

on  themselves. 
Have  I  not  heard  them  mock  the  blessed 

Host 
In  song.s  so  lewd,  the  beast  might  roar 

his  claim 
To  being  in  God's  image,   more  than 

they? 
Have  I   not  seen  the  gamekeeper,  the 

groom, 
Gardener,   and  huntsman,   in  the  par- 
son's place. 
The  parson  from  his  own  spire  swung 

out  dead, 
And  Ignorance  crying  in  the  streets,  and 

all  men 
Regarding  her  ?     I  say  they  have  drawn 

the  fire 
On  their  own  heads :  yet,  Paget,  I  do 

hold 
The   Catholic,    if  he   have  the  greater 

right, 
Hath  been  the  crueller. 

Paget.  Action  and  re-action, 

The  miserable  see-saw  of  our  child- world, 
Make  us  despise  it  at  odd  hours,  my 

Lord. 
Heaven  help  that  this  re-action  not  react, 
Yet  fiercelier  under  Queen  Elizabeth, 
So  that  she  come  to  rule  us. 

Howard..  The  world  's  mad. 

Paget.    My  Lord,  the  world  is  like  a 

drunken  man, 
Who  cannot  move  straight  to  his  end  — 

but  reels 


QUEEN   MARY. 


519 


Kow  to  the  right,  then  as  far  to  the  left, 
Push'd  by  the  crowd  beside  —  and  un- 
derfoot 
An  earthquake  ;  for  since  Henry  for  a 

doubt  — 
Which  a  young  lust  had  clapt  upon  the 

back, 
Crying,     ' '  Forward, "  —  set     our     old 

church  rocking,  men 
Have  hardly  known  what  to  believe,  or 

whether 
They  should  believe  in  any  thing ;  the 

currents 
So  shift  and  change,  they  oce  not  how 

they  are  borne, 
Nor  whither.     I  conclude  the  King  a 

beast  ; 
Verily  a  lion  if  you  will  —  the  world 
A  most  obedient  beast  and  fool  —  myself 
Half  beast  and  fool  as  appertaining  to 

it; 
Altho'  your  Lordship  hath  as  little  of 

each 
Cleaving  to  your  original  Adam-clay, 
As  may  be  consonant  with  mortality. 
Hoivard.    We  talk  and  Cranmer  suf- 
fers. 
The  kindliest  man  I  ever  knew ;  see,  see, 
I  speak  of  him  in  the  past.     Unhappy 

land  ! 
Hard-natnred  Queen,   half  Spanish  in 

herself. 
And  grafted  on  the  hard-grain'd  stock 

of  Spain  — 
Her  life,  since  Philip  left  her,  and  she 

lost 
Her  fierce  desire  of  bearing  him  a  child. 
Hath,  like  a  brief  and  bitter  winter's 

day. 
Gone  narrowing  down  and  darkening  to 

a  close. 
There  will  be  more  conspiracies,  I  fear. 
Paget.    Ay,  ay,  beware  of  France. 
Howard.  0  Paget,  Paget ! 

I  have  seen  heretics  of  the  poorer  sort. 
Expectant  of  the  rack  from  day  to  day. 
To  whom  the  fire  were  welcome,  lying 

ehain'd 
In  breathless  dungeons  over  steaming 

sewers. 
Fed  with  rank  bread  that  crawl'd  upon 

the  tongue, 
And  putrid  water,  every  drop  a  worm. 
Until  they  died  of  rotted  limbs ;  and 

then 
Cast  on  the  dunghill  naked,  and  become 
Hideously  alive  again  from  head  to  heel,  | 


Made  even  the  carrion-nosing  mongrel 
vomit 

With  hate  and  horror. 

Paget.  Nay,  you  sicken  me 

To  hear  you. 

H&ward.    Fancy-sick  ;    these    things 
are  done. 

Done  right  against  the  promise  of  this 
Queen 

Twice  given. 

Paget.    No   faith   with   heretics,   my 
Lord  ! 

Hist !  there  be  two  old  gossips  —  Gos- 
pellers, 

I  take  it  ;  stand  behind  the  pillar  here ; 

I    warrant   you    they   talk    about    the 
burning. 

Enter   Two  Old  Women.      Jcan,   and 
after  her  Tib. 

Joa7i.  Why,  it  be  Tib. 
Tib.  I  cum  behind  tha,  gall,  and 
could  n't  make  tha  hear.  Eli,  the  wind 
and  the  wet  !  What  a  day,  wliat  a  day! 
nigh  iipo'  judgment  daay  loike.  Pwoaps 
be  pretty  things,  Joan,  but  they  wunt 
set  i'  the  Lords'  cheer  o'  that  daay. 

Joan.    I  must  set  down  myself,  Tib  ; 
it  be  a  var  waay  vor  my  owld  legs  up 
vro'  Islip.     Eh,  my  rheumatizy  be  that 
bad  howiver  be  I  to  win  to  the  burnin'. 
Tib.    I   should   saay  'twur   ower   by 
now.      1  'd   ha'    been    here   avore,    but 
Dunible  wur  blow'd  wi'  the  wind,  and 
Dumble  's  tlie  best  milcher  in  Islip. 
Joan.    Our  Daisy  's  as  good  'z  her. 
Tib.    Noa,  Joan. 
Joan.    Our  Daisy's  butter '  sas  good  ': 

hern. 
Tib.    Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.    Our  Daisy's  cheeses  be  better. 
Tib.    Noa,  Joan. 

Joan.  Eh,  then  ha'  thy  waay  wi  me, 
Tib  ;  ez  thou  hast  wi'  thy  owld  man. 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan,  and  my  owld  man 
wur  up  and  awaay  betimes  wi'  dree  haixl 
eggs  for  a  good  pleace  at  the  burnin'  ; 
and  barrin'  the  wet,  Hodge  'ud  ha' 
been  a-harrowin'  o'  white  peasen  i'  the 
outfield  -  -  and  barrin'  the  wind,  Dum- 
ble wur  blow'd  wi'  the  wind,  so  'z  we 
was  forced  to  stick  her,  but  we  fetched 
her  ioun<l  at  last.  Thank  the  Lord 
therevore.  Dumble  's  the  best  milcher 
in  Islip. 

Joan.  Thou  's  thy  way  wi'  man  and 
beast,  Tib.     I  wonder  at  tha',  it  beats 


520 


QUEEN   MARY. 


me !  Eh,  but  I  do  know  ez  Pwoaps 
and  vires  be  bad  things  ;  tell  'ee  now, 
I  heeid  summat  as  sunnuun  towld  sum- 
mun  o'  owld  Bishop  Gardiner's  end  ; 
there  wur  an  owld  lord  a-cum  to  dine 
wi'  un,  and  a  wur  so  owld  a  could  n't 
bide  vor  his  dinner,  but  a  had  to  bide 
liowsoniiver,  vor  "1  wunt  dine,"  says 
my  Lord  Bishop,  says  lie,  "not  till  1 
hears  ez  Latiinei-  and  Kidley  be  a-vire  "  ; 
ind  so  they  bided  on  and  on  till  vour 
o'  the  clock,  till  his  man  cum  in  post 
vro'  here,  and  tells  un  ez  the  vire  has 
tuk  holt,  "  Now,"  says  the  bishop,  says 
he,  "we'll  gwo  to  dinner";  and  the 
owld  lord  fell  to  's  meat  wi'  a  will,  God 
bless  un  ;  but  Gardiner  wur  struck  down 
like  by  the  hand  o'  God  avore  a  could 
taste  a  mossel,  and  i.  set  him  all  a-vire, 
so  'z  the  tongue  on  un  cum  a-lolluping 
out  o'  'is  mouth  as  black  as  a  rat.  Thank 
the  Lord,  therevore. 
Paget.    The  fools  ! 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan  ;  and  Queen  Mary 
gwoes  on  a-burnin'  and  a-burnin',  to 
git  her  baaby  born  ;  but  all  her  burnin's 
'ill  never  burn  out  the  hypocrisy  that 
makes  the  water  in  her.  There  's  nought 
but  the  vire  of  God's  hell  ez  can  burn 
out  that. 

Joan.    Thank  the  Lord,  therevore. 
Paget.    The  fools  ! 

Tib.  A-burnin',  and  a-burnin',  and 
a-makin'  o'  volk  madder  and  madder  ; 
but  tek  thou  my  word  vor't,  Joan,  — 
and  1  bean't  wrong  not  twice  i'  ten  year 
—  the  burnin'  o'  the  owld  archbishop  'ill 
burn  the  Pwoap  out  o'  this  'ere  land  vor 
iver  and  iver. 

Howard.    Out  of  the  church,  you  brace 

of  cursed  crones, 
Or  I  will  have  you  duck'd.     ( IVoinen 

hurrij  out.)     Said  I  not  riglit  ? 
For    how   should   reverend   prelate    or 

throned  prince 
Brook  for  an  hour  such  brute  malig- 
nity ? 
Ah,    what   an   acrid   wine    has    Luther 

brew'd  ! 
Paget.    Pooh,   pooh,   my  Lord  !  poor 

garrulous  country-wives. 
Buy  you  their  cheeses,  and  they  '11  side 

with  you  ; 
You  cannot  judge  the  liquor  from  the 

lees. 
Howard.    I  think  that  in  some  sort 

we  may.     But  see, 


Enter  Peters. 
Peters,  my  gentleman,  an  honest  Cath- 
olic, 
Who  follow'd  with  the  crowd  to  Cran- 

mer's  fire. 
One  that  would  neither  misreport  nor 

lie. 
Not  to  gain  paradise  :  no,   nor  if  the 

Pope 
Charged  him  to  do  it  —  he  is  white  as 

death. 
Peter.s,  how  pale  you  look  !  you  bring 

the  smoke 
Of  Craumer's  burning  with  you. 

Peters.  Twice  or  thrice 

The  smoke  of  Cranmer's  burning  wrapt 

me  round. 
Howaj-d.    Peters,  you  know  me  Cath- 
olic, but  English. 
Did  he  die  bravely  ?     Tell  me  that,  or 

leave 
All  else  untold. 
Peters.    My  Lord,  he  died  most  bravely. 
Howard.    Then  tell  me  all. 
Paget.         Ay,  Master  Peters,  tell  us. 
Peters.    You   saw  him   how   he  past 

among  the  crowd  ; 
And  ever  as  he  walk'd  the  Spanish  friars 
Still  plied  him  with  entreaty  aud  re- 
proach : 
But  Cranmer,  as  the  helmsman  at  the 

helm 
Steei-s,  ever  looking  to  the  happy  haven 
Where  he  shall  rest  at  night,  moved  to 

his  death  ; 
And  I  could  see  that  many  .silent  hands 
Came  from  the  crowd  and  met  his  own  ; 

and  thus, 
When  we  had  come  where  Ridley  burnt 

with  Latimer, 
He,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  as  one  whose 

mind 
Is  all  made  up,  in  haste  put  off  the  rags 
They  had  mock'd  his  misery  with,  and 

all  in  white, 
His  long  white  beard,   which  he   had 

never  shaven 
Since  Henry's  death,  down-sweeping  to 

the  chain, 
Wherewitli  they  bound  him  to  the  stake, 

he  stood. 
More    like   an    ancient    father   of    the 

Church, 
Than  heretic  of  these  times  ;  and  still 

the  friars 
Plied  him,  but  Cranmer  only  shook  his 

head, 


QUEEN   IVLA-RY. 


521 


Or   answer'd    them    in    smiling    neg- 
atives ; 

Whereat  Lord  Williams  gave  a  sudden 
cry  :  — 

■'  Make  short  !   make  short !  "  and  so 
they  lit  the  wood. 

Then  Crannier  lifted  his  left  hand  to 
heaven, 

And  thrust   his   right   into  the  bitter 
flame  ; 

And  crying,  in  his  deep  voice,  more  than 
once, 

'•'This  hath  ofl'ended  —  this  unworthy 
hand  !  " 

So  held  it  till  it  all  was  burn'd,  before 

The  flame  had  reach'd  his  body  ;  I  stood 
near  — 

Mark'd  him  —  he  never  uttered  moan 
of  pain  : 

He  never  stirr'd  or  writhed,  but,  like  a 
statue, 

Unmoving  in  the  greatness  of  the  flame, 

Gave  up  the  ghost ;  and  so  past  martyr- 
like— 

Martyi'  I  may  not  call  him  —  past  — 
but  whither? 
Paget.    To  purgatory,  man,  to  purga- 
tory. 
Peters.    Nay,  but,  my  Lord,  he  denied 

purgatory. 
Paget.    Why  then  to  heaven,  and  God 

ha'  mercy  on  him. 
Howard.    Paget,    despite   his   fearfu^ 
heresies, 

I  loved  the  man,  and  needs  must  moan 
for  him  ; 

0  Cranmer  ! 

Paget.     But    your    moan    is    useless 
now  : 

Come  out,  my  Lord,  it  is  a  world  of  fools. 
\Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  1.  —LONDON.    HALL  IN  THE 
PALACE. 

Queen,  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Heath.    Madam, 
I  do  assure  you,  that  it  must  be  look'd 

to  : 
Calais  is  but  ill-garrison'd,  in  Guisnes 
Are  scarce  two  hundred  men,  and  the 

French  fleet 
Rule  in  the  narrow  seas.     It  must  be 

look'd  to. 


If  war  should  fall  between  yourself  and 

Fi'anee  ; 
Or  you  will  lose  your  Calais. 

Mary.  It  .shall  be  look'd  to  ; 

I  wish  you  a  good-morning,  good  Sir 

Nicholas  : 
Here  is  the  King.  [Exit  Heath. 

Enter  Philip. 

PhilijJ.      Sir  Nicholas  tells  you  true, 

And  you  must  look  to  Calais  \\\\v\\  I  go. 

Mary.    Go  !  must  you  go,  indeed  — 

again  —  so  soon  ? 
Wh}%  nature's  licensed  vagabond,  the 

swallow. 
That  might   live  always  in   the   sun's 

warm  heart. 
Stays  longer  here  in  our  poor  north  than 

you  :  — 
Knows  where  he  nested  —  ever  comes 

again. 
Pldlii).    And,  Madam,  so  shall  1. 
Mary.  0,  will  you  ?  will  you  ? 

I  am  faint  with  fear  that  you  will  come 

no  more. 
Philip.    Ay,  ay  ;  but  many  voices  call 

me  hence. 
Mary.    Voices  —  I  hear  unhappy  ru- 
mors —  nay, 
I  say  not,  I  believe.     What  voices  call 

you 
Dearer  than  mine  that  should  be  dearest 

to  you  ? 
Alas,  my  Lord  !  what  voices  and  how 

many  ? 
Philip.    The  voices  of  Castile  and  Ara- 

gon, 
Granada,  Naples,  Sicily,  and  Milan,  — 
The  voices  of  Franclie-Comte,  and  the 

Netherlands, 
The  voices  of  Peru  and  Mexico, 
Tunis,  and  Oran,  and  the  Philippines, 
And  all   the   fair  spice-islands  of  the 

East. 
Mary  (admiringly).    You      are      the 

mightiest  monarch  upon  earth, 
I  but  a  little  Queen  ;  and  so,  indeed, 
Need  you  the  more  ;  and  whereibre  could 

you  not 
Helm  the  huge  vessel  of  your  state,  my 

liege. 
Here,  by  the  side  of  her  who  loves  you 

most  ? 
Philip.    No,  Madam,  no  !  a  candle  in 

the  sun 
Is   all   but  smoke  —  a  star  beside  the 

moon 


522 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Is  all  but  lost ;  your  people  will  not 
crown  me  — 

Your  people   are  as  cheerless  as   your 
clime  ; 

Hate  me  and  mine  :  witness  the  brawls, 
the  gibbets. 

Here  swings  a  Spaniard—  there  an  Eng- 
lishman ; 

The  peoples  are  unlike  as  their  com- 
plexion ; 

Yet  will  I  be  your  svvallo  ,v  and  reLurn  — 

But  now  I  cannot  bide. 

Mary.  I>,'ot  to  help  lae  ? 

They  hate  vie  also  for  my  love  to  you, 

My  Philip  ;  and  these  judgments  on  the 
land  — 

Harvestless    autumns,    horrible    agues, 
plague  — 
Philip.    The  blood  and  sweat  of  here- 
tics at  the  stake 

Is  God's  best  dew  upon  the  barren  field. 

Burn  more  ! 

Mary.    I  will,  I  will ;  and  you  will 

stay. 
Philip.    Have  I  not  said  ?     Madam,  I 
came  to  sue 

Your  Council  and  yourself  to  declare 
war. 
Mary.    Sir,  there  are  many  English 
in  your  ranks 

To  help  your  battle. 
Philip.  So  far,  good.   I  say 

I  came  to  sue  your  Council  and  yourself 

To   declare   war   against   the   King  of 
France. 
Mary.    Not  to  see  me  ? 
Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  to  see  you. 

Unalterably  and  pesteringly  fond  ! 

[Aside. 

But,  soon  or  late  you  must  have  war 
with  France  ; 

King  Henry  warms  your  traitors  at  his 
hearth. 

Carew  is   there,   and  Thomas   Stafford 
there. 

Courtenay,  belike  — 

Mary.  A  fool  and  featherhead  ! 

Philip.    Ay,  but  they  use  his  name. 
In  brief,  this  Henry 

Stirs  up  your  land  against  you  to  the 
intent 

That  you  may  lose  your  English  heritage. 

And  then,  your  Scottish  namesake  mar- 
rying 

The  Dauphin,  he  would  weld  France, 
England,  Scotland, 

Into  one  sword  to  hack  at  Spain  and  me.  | 


Mary.    And  yet  the  Pope  is  now  col« 

leagued  with  France  ; 
You  make  your  wars  upon  him  down  in 

Italy  :  — 
Philip,  can  that  be  well  ? 

Philip.  Content  you,  Madam  ; 

You  must  abide  iny  judgment,  and  my 

father's. 
Who   deems   it  a  most  just  and  holy 

war. 
The  Pope  would  cast  the  Spaniard  out 

of  Naples  : 
He  calls  us  worse  than  Jews,   Moors, 

Saracens. 
The  Pope  has  push'd  his  horns  beyond 

his  mitre  — 
Beyond  his  province.     Now, 
Duke  Alva  will  but  touch  him  on  the 

horns. 
And   he  withdraws ;   and   of  his   holy 

head  — 
For  Alva  is  true  son  of  the  true  church  — 
No  hair  is  harm'd.     Will  you  not  help 

me  liere  ? 
Mary.    Alas  !    the   Council   will   not 

hear  of  war. 
They  say  your  wars  are  not  the  wars  of 

England. 
They  will  not  lay  more  taxes  on  a  land 
So  hunger-nipt  and  wretched  ;  and  you 

know 
The  crown  is  poor.     We  have  given  the 

church-lands  back  : 
The  nobles  would  not ;  nay,  they  clapt 

their  hands 
Upon   their   swords   when   ask'd  ;   and 

therefore  God 
Is  hard  upon  the  peojde.     What 's  to  be 

done  ? 
Sir,    I  will  move  them  in  your  cause 

again. 
And  we  will  raise  us  loans  and  subsidies 
Affong  the  merchants  ;  and  Sir  Thomas 

Gresham 
Wi  II  aid  Us.     There  is  Antwerp  and  the 

Jews. 
Philip.    Madam,  my  thanks. 
Mary.    And  you  will  stay  your  going  ? 
Philip.    And  further  to  discourage  and 

lay  lame 
The  plots  of  France,  altho'  you  love  her 

not, 
You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your  heir. 
She  stands  between  you  and  the  Queen 

of  Scots. 
Mary.    The  Queen  of  Scots  at  least  is 

Catholic. 


QUEEN    MARY. 


523 


Philip,    Ay,   Madam,   Catholic ;   but 
I  will  not  have 
The  King  of  France  the  King  of  Eng- 
land too. 
Mary.    But  she  's  a  heretic,  and,  when 
I  am  gone. 
Brings  the  new  learning  back. 

Pkili}).  It  nmst  be  done. 

You    nmst     proclaim    Elizabeth    your 
heir. 
Mary.    Then  it  is  done  ;  but  you  will 
stay  your  going 
Somewhat  beyond  your  settled  purpose  '( 
Philip.  No  ! 

Mary.    What,  not  one  day  ? 
Philip.  You  beat  upon  the  rock. 

Mary.    And  1  am  broken  tlieie. 
Philij).  Is  this  a  place 

To  wail  in.   Madam  ?   what  !   a   public 

hall. 
Go  in,  I  pray  you. 

Mary.  Do  not  seem  so  changed. 

Say  go  ;  but  only  say  it  lovingly. 

Philip).    You  do  mistake.     1  am  not 
one  to  change. 
I  never  loved  you  more. 

Mary.  Sire,  I  obey  you. 

Come  quickly. 

Fhilip.  Ay.  [Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria. 

Feria  {aside).        The  Queen  in  tears. 

Philip.  Feria  ! 

Hast  thou  not  mark'd  —  come  closer  to 

mine  ear  — 
How  doubly  aged  this  Queen  of  ours 

hath  grown 
Since  she  lost  hope  of  bearing  us  a  child  ? 
Feria.    Sire,  if  your  Grace  hath  mark'd 

it,  so  have  I. 
Philip.    Hast  thou  not  likewise  mark'd 
Elizabeth, 
How  fair  and  royal —  like  a  Queen,  in- 
deed ? 
Feria.    Allow  me  the  same  answer  as 
before  — 
That  if  your  Grace  hath  mark'd  her,  so 
have  I. 
Philip.    Good,    now  ;    methinks   my 
Queen  is  like  enough 
To  leave  me  by  and  by. 

Feria.  To  leave  you,  sire  ? 

Philip.    I  mean  not  like  to  live.    Eliz- 
abeth — 
To  Philibert  of  Savoy,  as  you  know, 
We  meant  to  wed  her  ;  but   I  am  not 
sure 


She  will  not  serve   me  better  —  so  my 

Queen 
Would  leave  me  —  as  —  my  wife. 
Feria.  Sire,  even  so. 

Philip.   She  will  not  have  Prince  Phili- 
bert of  Savoy. 
Feria.    No,  sire. 

Philip.    1  have  to  pray  you,  some  odd 
time. 
To  sound  the  Princess  carelessly  on  this  ; 
Not  as  from  me,  but  as  your  fantasy  ; 
And  tell  me  how  she  takes  it. 

Feria.  Sire,  1  will. 

Philip).    I    am   not   certain  but   that 
Philibert 
Shall  be  tiie  man  ;  and  I  shall  urge  his 

suit 
Upon  the  Queen,  because  I  am  not  cer- 
tain : 
Y'ou'  understand,  Feria. 

Feria.  Sire,  1  do. 

Philip.    And  if  you  be  not  secret  in 
this  matte)-. 
You  understand  me  there,  too  ? 

Feria.  Sire,  I  do. 

Philip.   You  must  be  sweet  and  sup- 
ple, like  a  Frenchman. 
She  is  none  of  those   who   lofithe   the 
honeycomb.  {Exit  Fekia. 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.    My  liege,  I  bring  you  goodly 

tidings. 
Philip.  Well. 

Renard.    There    will    be    war    with 

France,  at  last,  my  liege  ; 
Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  a  bull-headed  ass, 
Sailing  from  France,  with  thirty  Eng- 
lishmen, 
Hath  taken  Scarboro'  Castle,  north  of 

York  ; 
Proclaims  himself  protector,  and  affirms 
The  Queen  has  forfeited  her  right    to 

reign 
By    marriage    with    an    alien  —  other 

things 
As  idle  ;  a  weak  W^yatt  !     Little  doubt 
This  buzz  will  soon  be  silenced  !  but  the 

Council 
(I  have  talk'd  with  some  already)  are  for 

war. 
This  is  the  fifth  conspiracy  hatch' d  in 

France  ; 
They   show   their  teeth  upon  it ;  and 

your  Grace, 
So  you  will  take  advice  of  mine,  fihould 

stay 


524 


QUEEN   MARY, 


Yet  for  a  while,  to  shape  and  guide  the 
event. 
Philip.    Good  !    Renard,    I   will  stay 

then. 
Renard.         Also,  sire, 
Might  I  not  say  —  to  please  your  wife, 
the  Queen  ? 
Philip.    Ay,   Renard,  if  you   care   to 
put  it  so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — A  ROOM   IN  THE  PlL- 
ACE. 

Mart  and  Cardinal  Pole.    Lady  Clar- 
ence and  Alice  in  the  background. 

Mary.    Reginald  Pole,  what  news  hath 

plagued  thy  heart  ? 
What  makes  thy  favor  like  the  bloodless 

head 
Fall'n  on  the  block,  and  held  up  by  the 

hair  ? 
Philip?  — 

Pole.       No,  Philip  is  as  warm  in  life 
As  ever. 

Mary.     Ay,  and  then  as  cold  as  ever. 
Is  Calais  taken  ? 

Pole.  Cousin,  there  liath  chanced 

A  sharper   harm    to    England   and   to 

Rome, 
Than  Calais  taken.     Julius  the  Third 
Was  ever  just,  and  mild,  and  fatherlike  ■ 
But   this   new  Pope  Caratfa,   Paul  the 

Fourth, 
Not  only  n-ft  me  of  that  legateship 
Which  Julius  gave  me,  and  the  legate- 
ship 
Annex'd    to    Canterbury  —  nay,     but 

worse  — 
And  yet  I  must  obey  the  holy  father. 
And  so  must  you,  good  cousin  ; — worse 

than  all, 
A  passing  bell  toU'd  in  a  dying  ear  — 
He  hath  cited  me  to  Rome,  for  heresy. 
Before  his  Inquisition. 

Mary.  I  knew  it,  cousin. 

But  held  from  you  all  papers  sent  by 

Rome, 
That  you  might  rest  among  us,  till  the 

Pope, 
To  compass   which   I   wrote   myself  to 

Rome, 
Reversed  his  doom,  and  that  you  might 

not  seem 
To  disobey  his  Holiness. 

Pole.  He  hates  Philip  ; 

He  is  all  Italian,  and  he  hates  the  Span- 
iard ; 


He  cannot  dream  that  7  advised  the 
war ; 

He  strikes  thro'  me  at  Philip  and  your- 
self. 

Nay,  but  I  know  it  of  old,  he  hates  me 
too  ; 

So  brands  me  in  the  stare  of  Christen- 
dom 

A  heretic  ! 

Now,  even  now,  when  bow'd  before  n^y 
tinie. 

The  house  half-ruin'd  ere  the  lease  be 
out  ; 

When  I  should  guide  the  Church  in 
peace  at  home, 

After  my  twenty  years  of  banishment, 

And  all  my  lifelong  labor  to  uphold 

The  primacy  —  a  heretic.     Long  ago, 

When  I  was  ruler  in  the  patrimony, 

1  was  too  lenient  to  the  Lutheran, 

And  I  and  learned  friends  among  our^ 
selves 

Would  freely  canvass  certain  Lutheran- 
isms. 

What  then,  he  knew  Lwas  no  Lutheran. 

A  heretic  ! 

He  drew  this  shaft  against  me  to  the 
head, 

When  it  was  thought  I  might  be  chosen 
Pope, 

But  then  withdrew  it.  In  full  consis- 
tory, 

When  I  was  made  Archbishop,  he  ap- 
proved me. 

And  how  should  he  have  sent  me  Legate 
hither. 

Deeming  me  heretic  ?  and  what  heresy 
since  ? 

But  he  was  evermore  mine  enemy. 

And  hates  the  Spaniard  —  fiery-chol» 
eric, 

A  drinker  of  black,  strong,  volcanic 
wines. 

That  ever  make  him  fierier.  I,  a  her- 
etic ! 

Year  Highness  knows  that  in  pursuing 
heresy 

I  have  gone  beyond  your  late  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, — - 

He  cried  Enough  !  enough  !  before  his 
death. — 

Gone  beyond  him  and  mine  own  natura} 
man 

(It  was  God's  cause)  ;  so  far  they  cal] 
me  now. 

The  scourge  and  butcher  of  their  Eng- 
lish church. 


QUEEN   MARY. 


525 


Mary.    Have  courage,  your  reward  is 

Heaven  itself. 
Pole.    They  groan  amen  ;  they  swarm 

into  the  liie 
Like  flies  —  lor  wliat  ?  no  dogma.    They 

know  nothing, 
They  burn  for  nothing. 

Mary.  You  have  done  your  best. 

Pole.    Have  done  my  best,  and  as  a 

faitlilul  son. 
That  all  day  long  hath  w-rought  his  fa- 
ther's work, 
When  back  he  comes  at  evening  hath  the 

door 
Shut  on  him  by  the  father  whom  he 

loved. 
His  early  follies  cast  into  his  teeth, 
And  the  poor  son  turn'd  out  into  the 

street 
To  sleep,  to  die  —  I  shall  die  of  it,  cousin. 
Mary.    I  pray  you  be  not  so  disconso- 
late ; 
1  still  will  do  mine  utmost  with  the  Pope. 
Poor  cousin. 
Have  ]  not  been  the  fast  friend  of  your 

life 
Since  mine  began,  and  it  was  thought 

we  two 
Might  make  one  flesh,  and  cleave  unto 

each  other 
As  man  and  wife. 

Pole.  Ah,  cousin,  I  remember 

How  I  would  dandle  you  upon  my  knee 
At  lisping-age.     I  watch'd  you  dancing 

once 
With  your  huge  father  ;  he  look'd  the 

Great  Harry, 
You   but   his   cockboat ;    prettily    you 

did  it. 
And   innocently.     No  —  we   were    not 

made 
One   flesh    in  happiness,   no   happiness 

here  ; 
But  now  we  are  made  one  flesh  in  misery ; 
Our  brideinaids  are  not  lovely  —  Disaj)- 

]iointment, 
Ingratitude,  Injustice,  Evil-tongue, 
LaV)or-in-vain. 

Mary.  Surely,  not  all  in  vain. 

Peace,  cousin,  peace  !    I  am  sad  at  heart 

myself. 
Pole.    Our  altar  is  a  mound  of  dead 

men's  clay, 
Dug  fi'om  the  grave  that  yawns  for  us 

bej'ond  ; 
And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind 

the  Groom, 


And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind 

the  Bride  — 
Mary.    Have  you  been  looking  at  the 

"  Dance  of  Death  "  ? 
Pole.    No  ;  but  these  libellous  papers 

which  I  found 
Strewn  in  your  ]talace.     Look  you  here 

—  the  Pojie 
Pointing  at   me  with  ' '  Pole,  the  her- 
etic. 
Thou  hast  burnt  others,  do  thou  burn 

thyself. 
Or  I  will  burn  thee  "  and  this  other ; 

see  !  — 
"  We  jn-ay  continually  for  the  death 
Of  our  accursed   Queen   and  Cardinal 

Pole." 
This  last  —  I  dare  not  read  it  her. 

\_Aside. 
Mary.  Away  ! 

Why  do  you  bring  me  tliese  ? 
I  thought  you  knew  me  better.     I  never 

read, 
I  tear  them  ;  they  come  back  upon  my 

dreams. 
The  hands  that  write  them  should  be 

burnt  clean  oft" 
As  Cranmer's,  and  the  fiends  that  utter 

them 
Tongue-torn   with    pincers,    lash'd    to 

death,  or  lie 
Famishing  in  black  cells,  while  famish'd 

rats 
Eat  them  alive.    Why  do  they  bring  me 

these  ? 
Do  you  mean  to  drive  me  mad  ? 

Pole.  I  had  forgotten 

How    these    poor    libels    trouble   you. 

Your  pardon 
Sweet  cousin,  and  farewell  !     "  0  bub- 
ble world, 
Whose  colors  in  a   moment  break  and 

fly!" 
Why,    who   said  that  ?  1    know  not  — 

true  enough  ! 
[Puts  up  the  papers,  all  hut  the  last, 

which  falls.     Exit  Pole. 

Alice.    If    Cranmer's    spirit    were   a 

mocking  one, 
And  heard  these  two,  there   might  be 

sport  for  him.  [Aside. 

Mary.    Clarence,  they  hate  me  ;  even 

while  I  speak 
There  lurks  a  silent  dagger,  listening 
In  some  dark  closet,  some  long  gallery, 

drawn. 
And  panting  for  my  blood  as  I  go  by. 


526 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Ladij   Clarence.    Nay,  Madam,  there 
be  loyal  papers  too, 
And  I  have  often  found  them. 

Marxj.  Find  me  one  ! 

Lady  Clarence.    Ay,  Madam  ;  but  Sir 
Nicholas  Heath,  the  Chancellor, 
Would  see  your  Highness. 

Mary.     Wherefore  should  I  see  him  ? 
Lady  Clarence.  Well,  Madam,  he  may 

bring  you  news  from  Philip. 
Mary.    So,  Clarence. 
Lady  Clarence.    Let  me  first  put  up 
your  hair ; 
It  tumbles  all  abroad. 

Mary.  And  the  gray  dawn 

Gf  an  old  age  that  never  will  be  mine 
Is  all  the  clearer  seen.     No,  no  ;  what 

matters  ? 
Forlorn  I  am,  and  let  me  look  forlorn. 
Enter  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 
Heath.    I   bring  your   Majesty   such 
grievous  news 
I  grieve  to  bring  it.     Madam,  Calais  is 
taken. 
Mary.    AVhat  traitor   spoke  ?    Here, 
let  my  cousin  Pole 
Seize  him  and  burn  him  for  a  Lutheran. 
Heath.    Her  Highness  is  unwell.     I 

will  retire. 
Lady  Clarence.    Madam,    your  chan- 
cellor. Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 
Mary.    Sir  Nicholas  ?     I  am  stunn'd 
—  Nicholas  Heath  ? 
Methought  some  traitor  smote  me  on 

the  head. 
What  said  you,  my  good  Lord,  that  our 

brave  English 
Had  sallied  out  from  Calais  and  driven 

back 
The  Frenchmen  from  their  trenches  ? 

Heath.  Alas  !  no. 

That   gateway   to    the    mainland    over 

which 
Our  flag  hath  floated  for  two  hundred 

years 
Ts  France  again. 

Mary.  So  ;  but  it  is  not  lost  — 

Not  yet.     Send  out  :  let  England  as  of 

old 
Rise  lionlike,  strike  hard  and  deep  into 
The  prey  they  are  rending  from  her  — 

ay,  and  rend 
The  renders  too.     Send  out,  send  out, 

and  make 
Musters  in  all  the  counties  ;  gather  all 
From  sixteen  years  to  sixty ;  collect  the 
fleet ; 


Let  every  craft  that   carries  sail  and 

gun 
Steer  toward  Calais.      Guisnes  is  not 

taken  yet  ? 
Heath.    Guisnes  is  not  taken  yet. 
Mary.  There  yet  is  hope. 

Heath.    Ah,  Madam,  but  your  people 

are  so  cold ; 
I  do  much  fear  that  England  will  not, 

care. 
Methinks  there    is    no    manhood    left 

among  us. 
Mary.    Send  out ;  I  am  too  weak  to 

stir  abroad : 
Tell  my  mind  to  the  Council  —  to  th(* 

Parliament : 
Proclaim   it   to   the  winds.     Thou  art 

cold  thyself 
To  babble  of  their  coldness.     0  would  I 

were 
My  father  for  an  hour  !     Away  now  — 

quick  !  [Exit  Heath. 

I  hoped  I  had  served  God  with  all  my 

might ! 
It  seems  I  have  not.     Ah  !  much  her- 
esy 
Shelter'd   in   Calais.      Saints,    I    have 

rebuilt 
Your  shrines,  set  up  your  broken  im- 
ages ; 
Be  comfortable  to  me.     Suffer  not 
That   my   brief  reign    in    England    be 

defamed 
Thro'  all  her  angry  chronicles  hereafter 
By  loss  of  Calais.     Grant  me   Calais. 

Philip, 
We    have    made   war   upon   the   Holy 

Father 
All  for  your  sake  :    what  good   could 

come  of  that  ? 
Lady     Clarence.    No,     Madam,     not 

against  the  Holy  Father  ; 
You  did   but   help  King   Philip's  war 

with  France. 
Your  troops  were  never  down  in  Italy. 
Mary.    I  am  a  byword.     Heretic  and 

rebel 
Point  at  me  and  make  merry.     Philip 

gone  ! 
And  Calais  gone  !     Time  that  I  were 

gone  too  ! 
Lady    Clarence.    Nay,    if    the    fetid 

gutter  had  a  voice 
And  cried  I  was  not  clean,  what  should 

I  care  ? 
Or  you,  for  heretic  cries  ?    And  I  be- 
lieve, 


QUEEN   MARY. 


527 


Spite  of  your  melancholy  Sir  Nicholas, 
Your  England  is  as  loyal  as  myself. 
Mary  {seeing  the  paper  dropt  by  Pole). 
There,    there  !     another    paper ! 
Said  you  not 
Many  of  these  were  loyal  ?     Shall  I  try 
If  this  be  one  of  such  ? 

Lady  Clarence.       Let  it  be,  let  it  be. 

God  pardon  me  !   I  have  never  yet  found 

one.  [Aside. 

Mary  (reads).    "  Your  people  hate  you 

as  your  husband  liates  you." 

Clarence,  Clarence,  what  have  I  done  ? 

what  sin 
Beyond  all  grace,  all  pardon  ?     Mother 

of  God, 
Thou  knowest  never  woman  meant  so 

well. 
And  fared  so  ill  in  this  disastrous  world. 
My  people  hate  me  and  desire  my  death. 
Lady  Clarence.    No,  Madam,  no. 
Mary.    My  husband   hates   me,   and 

desires  ray  death. 
Lady  Clarence.    No,    iladam ;    these 

are  libels. 
Mary.    I  hate  myself,  and  I  desire  my 

death. 
Lady  Clarence.    Long  live  your  JLij- 
esty  !     Shall  Alice  sing  you 
One  of  her  pleasant  songs  ?     Alice,  my 

child, 
Bring  us  your  lute.    (Alice  goes. )    They 

say  the  gloom  of  Saul 
Was  lighten'd  by  young  David's  harp. 

Mary.  Too  young  ! 

And   never  knew   a  Philip.     {Re-enter 

Alice.)     Give  me  the  lute. 
He  hates  me  ! 

{She  sings.) 

Hapless  doom  of  woman  liappy  in  betrothing  ! 

Beauty  passes  like  a  breath  and  love  is  lost  in 
loathing : 

Law,  my  lute  ;  spealv  low,  my  lute,  but  say  the 
world  is  nothing  — 

Low,  lute,  low ! 

Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when  they 
first  awalven  ; 

Love  will  fly  the  fallen  leaf,  and  not  be  over- 
taken ; 

Low,  my  lute !  oh  low,  my  lute  !  we  fade  and 
are  forsaken  — 

Low,  dear  lute,  low  ! 

Take    it    away !    not   low   enough    for 
me  ! 
Alice.    Your  Grace  hath  a  low  voice. 
Mary.  How  dare  you  say  it  ? 

Even   for   that   he   hates    me.     A  low 
voice 


Lost  in  a  wilderness  where  none   can 

hear  ! 
A  voice  of  shipwreck  on  a  shoreless  sea  ! 
A  low  voice  from  the  dust  and  from  the 

grave  {sitting  on  the  ground). 
There,  am  1  low  enough  now  ? 

Alice.    Good   Lord !    how   grim    and 

ghastly  looks  her  Grace, 
With  both  her  knees  drawn  upward  to 

her  chin. 
There  was  an  old-world  tomb  beside  my 

father's. 
And  this  was  open'd,  and  the  dead  were 

found 
Sitting,  and  in  this  fashion  ;  she  looks 

a  corpse. 

Enter  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres. 

Lady  Magdalen.    Madam,  the  Count 
de  Feria  waits  without, 
In  hopes  to  see  your  Highness. 
Lady   Clarence  {pointing  to   Mary). 
Wait  he  must  — 
Her  trance  again.     She  neither  sees  nor 

hears. 
And  may  not  speak  for  hours. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Unliappiest 

Of  Queens  and  wives  and  women . 

Alice  {in  the  foreground  with  Lady 
Magdalen).    And  all  along 
Of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.    Not  so  loud  !     Our 
Clarence  there 
Sees  ever   such  an   aureole   round   the 

Queen, 
It  gilds   the  greatest   wronger  of   her 

peace. 
Who  stands  the  nearest  to  her. 

Alice.  Ay,  this  Philip  ; 

I  used  to  love  the  Queen  with  all  my 

heart  — 
God  help  me,  but  niethinks  1  love  her 

less 
For  such  a  dotage  upon  such  a  man. 
I   would   1  were  as  tall  and   strong   as 
you. 
Lady  Magdalen.    I  seem  half-shamed 

at  times  to  be  .so  tall. 
Alice.    You  are  the  stateliest  deer  in 
all  the  herd  — 
Beyond  his  aim  —  but  I  am  small  and 

scandalous. 
And  love  to  hear  bad  tales  of  Philip. 

Lady  Mcufdalen.  Why  ? 

1  never  heard  him  utter  worse  of  ^ou 
Than  that  you  were  low-statured. 
Alice.  Does  he  think 


528 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Low    stature    is    low    nature,    or    all 

women's 
Low  as  liis  own  ? 
Lady  Magdalen.    There  you  strike  in 

the  nail. 
This  coarseness  is  a  want  of  fantasy. 
It  is  the  low  man  thinks  the  woman  low  ; 
Sin  is  too  dull  to  see  beyond,  himself. 
Alice.    Ah,  Magdalen,  sin  is  bold  as 

well  as  dull. 
How  dared  he  ? 

Lady  Magdalen.    Stupid   soldiers  oft 

are  bold. 
Poor  lads,  they  see  not  what  the  general 

sees, 
A  risk  of  utter  ruin,     I  am  not 
Beyond  his  aim,  or  was  not. 

Alice.  Who  ?     Not  you  ? 

Tell,  tell  me  :  save  my  credit  with  my- 
self. 
Lady  Magdalen.    I  never  breathed  it 

to  a  bird  in  the  eaves, 
Would  not  for  all  the  stars  and  maiden 

moon 
Our  drooping  Queen  should  know  !     In 

Hampton  Court 
My  window  look'd  upon  the  corridor  ; 
And  I  was  robing  ;  —  this  poor  throat 

of  mine. 
Barer  than  I  should  wisli  a  man  to  see 

it, - 
When  he  we  speak  of  drove  the  window 

back, 
And,  like  a  thief,  push'd  in  his  royal 

hand  ; 
But  by  God's  providence  a  good  stout 

staff 
Lay  near  me  ;  and  you  know  me  strong 

of  arm  ; 
I  do  believe  I  lamed  his  Majesty's 
For  a  day  or  two,  tho',  give  the  Devil 

his  due, 
I  never  found  he  bore  me  any  spite. 
Alice.    I  would  she  could  have  wedded 

that  poor  youth, 
My  Lord  of  Devon  —  light  enough,  God 

knows. 
And   mixt  with  Wyatt's   rising  —  and 

the  boy 
Not   out   of    him  —  but   neither   cold, 

coarse,  cruel, 
And  more  than  all  — ■  no  Spaniard. 

Lady  Clarence.  Not  so  loud. 

Lord  Devon,  girls  !  what  are  you  whis- 
0  pering  here  I 
Alice.    Probing  an  old  state-secret  — 

how  it  chanced 


That  this  young  Earl  was  sent  on  foreign 

travel. 
Not  lost  his  head. 

Lady  Clarence.    There  was   no   proof 

against  him. 
Alice.    Nay,  Madam  ;  did  not  Gardi- 
ner intercept 
A  letter  which  the  Count  de   Noailles 

wrote 
To  that  dead  traitor,  Wyatt,  with  fult 

proof 
Of  Courtenay's  treason  ?     What  became 
of  that  ? 
Lady  Clarence.    Some  say  that  Gardi- 
ner,  out  of  love  for  him, 
Burnt  it,  and  some  relate  that  it  was 

lost 
When    Wyatt   sack'd   the    Chancellor's 

house  in  Southwark. 
Let  dead  things  rest. 

Alice.        Ay,  and  with  him  who  died 
Alone  in  Italy. 

Lady   Clarence.    Much     changed,     I 
hear. 
Had  put  off  levity  and  put  graveness 

on. 
The  foreign  courts  report  him   in   his 

manner 
Noble    as    his   young    person    and   old 

shield. 
It  might  be  so  —  but  all  is  over  now  ; 
He   caught   a   chill   in    the  lagoons  of 

Venice, 
And  died  in  Padua. 

Mary  {looking  up  suddenly).    Died  in 

the  true  faith  ? 
Lady  Clarence.    Ay,  Madam,  happily. 
Mary.  Happier  he  than  1. 

Lady  Magdalen.    It  seems  her  High- 
ness hath  awaken'd.     Think  you 
That  I  might  dare  to  tell  lier  that  the 
Count  — 
Mary.    I  will  see  no  man  hence  for- 
evermore. 
Saving  my  confessor  and  my  cousin  Pole. 
Lady  Magdalen.    It  is  the  Count  de 

Feria,  my  dear  lady. 
Mary.    Wliat  Count  ? 
Lady  Magdalen.    The  Count  de  Feria, 
from  his  Majesty 
King  Philip. 

Mary.    Philip  !   quick  !   loop  up  my 
hair  ! 
Throw  cushions  on  that  seat,  and  make 

it  throne-like. 
Arrange  my  dress  —  the  gorgeous  Indian 
shawl 


QUEEN   MARY. 


529 


That  Philip  brought  me  in  our  happy 

days  !  — 
That  covers  all.     So  —  am  1  somewhat 

Queenlike, 
Bride  of  the  mightiest  sovereign  upon 

earth  .' 
Lady  Clarence.    Ay,    so   your   Grace 

would  bide  a  moment  yet. 
Mary.    No,   no,  he   brings  a   letter. 

I  may  die 
Before  I  read  it.     Let  me  see  him  at 

once. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria  (kneels). 

Feria.    I    trust   your  Grace  is   well. 

{Aside)  How  her  hand  burns. 
Mary.    1  am  not  well,  but  it  will  bet- 
ter me. 
Sir  Count,  to  read  the  letter  which  you 
bring. 
Feria.    Madam,  1  bring  no  letter. 
Mary.  How  !  no  letter  ? 

Feria.    His  Highness  is  so  vex'd  with 

strange  affairs  — 
Mary.    That  his  own  wife  is  no  affair 

of  his. 
Feria.    Nay,  Madam,  nay  !  he  sends 
his  veriest  love, 
And  says,  he  will  come  quickly. 

Mary.  Doth  he,  indeed  ? 

You,   sir,  do  yov,  remember  what  you 

said 
When  last  you  came  to  England  ? 

Feria.  Madam,  I  brought 

My  King's  congratulations  ;  it  was  hoped 
Your  Highness  was  once  more  in  happy 

state 
To  give  him  an  heir  male. 

Mary.  Sir,  you  said  more  ; 

You  said   he  would  come  quickly.     I 

had  horses 
On  all   the  road   from   Dover,   day  and 

night ; 
On  all  the  road   from   Harwich,    night 

and  day  ; 
But  the  child  came  not,  and  the  husband 

came  not  ; 
And   yet    he    will    come   quickly.    .   .   . 

Thou  hast  learnt 
Thy  lesson,  and  1  mine.     There  is  no 

need 
For  Philip  so  to  shame  himself  again. 
Return, 
And  tell  him  that  I  know  he  comes  no 

more. 
Tell  him  at   last   I    know  his  love   is 
dead, 


And  that  I  am  in  state  to  bring  forth 

death  — 
Thou  art  commission'd  to  Elizabeth, 
And  not  to  me  ! 

Feria.    Mere  compliments  and  wishes, 
But  shall  I  take  some  message  from  youv 
Grace  l 
Mary.    Tell  her  to  come  and  close  my 
dying  eyes. 
And  wear  my  crown,  and   dance  upon 
my  grave. 
Feria.    Then   I   may  say  your  Grace 
will  see  your  sister  ? 
Your  Grace  is  too  low-spirited.     Air  and 

sunshine. 
1  would  we  had  you.    Madam,  in  our 

warm  Spain. 
You  droop  in  your  dim  London. 

Mary.  Have  him  away, 

I  sicken  of  his  readiness. 

Lady  Clarence.  My  Lord  Count, 

Her  Highness  is  too  ill  for  colloquy. 

Feria  {kneels,  and  kisses  her  liand). 

I    wish    her    Highness    better. 

{Aside)  How  her  hand  burns. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  HOUSE  NEAR  LON- 
DON. 

Elizabeth,    Steward   of    the    House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth.    There  's     half    an     angel 
wrong'd  in  your  account  ; 
]\[ethinks  I  am  all  angel,  that  I  bear  it 
Without   more   ruffling.      Cast   it   o'er 
again. 
Steioard.    I    «ere   whole   devil    if    I 
wrong'd  you.   Madam. 

[Exit  Steward. 
Attendant.    The  Count  de  Feria,  from 

the  King  of  Spain. 
Elizabeth.    Ah!  —  let  him  enter.   Nay, 
you  need  not  go  : 

[To  her  Ladies. 
Eemain  within  the  chamber,  but  apart. 
We  '11  have  no  private  conference.     Wel- 
come to  England  ! 
Enter  Feria. 
Feria.    Fair  island  star. 
Elizabeth.    I  shine  !     What  else.  Sir 

Count  ? 
Feria.    As   far  as   France,  and   into 
Philip's  heart. 
My  King  would  know  if  you  be  fairly 

served. 
And  lodged,  and  treated. 


530 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Elizabeth.      You  see  the  lodging,  sir, 
I  am  well-served,  and  am  in  every  thing 
Most   loyal   and   most  grateful  to  the 
Queen. 
Feria.    You  should  be  grateful  to  my 
master,  too, 
He  spoke  of  this  ;  and  unto  him  you  owe 
That  Mary  hath  acknowledged  you  her 
heir. 
Elizabeth.    No,  not  to  her  nor  him  ; 
but  to  the  people. 
Who  know  my  right,  and  love  me,  as  I 

love 
The  people  !  whom  God  aid  ! 

Feria.  You  will  be  Queen, 

And,  were  I  Philip  — 

Elizabeth.    Wherefore    pause    you  — 

what  ? 
Feria.    Nay,  but  I  speak  from  mine 
own  self,  not  him  : 
Your  royal  sister  cannot  last ;  your  hand 
Will  be  much  coveted  !    What  a  delicate 

one  ! 
Our  Spanish  ladies  have  none  such  — 

and  there. 
Were  you  in  Spain,  this  fine  fair  gossa- 
mer gold  — 
Like  sun-gilt    breathings   on   a   frosty 

dawn  — ■ 
That  hovers  round  your  shoulder  — 

Elizabeth.  Is  it  so  fine  ? 

Troth,  some  have  said  so. 

Feria.    — would  be  deemed  a  miracle. 
Elizabeth.    Your  Philip  hath  gold  hair 
and  golden  beard, 
There  must  be  ladies  many  with  hair  like 
mine. 
Feria.    Som  e  few  of  Gothic  blood  have 
golden  hair, 
But  none  like  yours. 

Elizabeth.    1  am  happy  you  approve  it. 
Feria.    But   as   to    Philip   and   your 
Grace  —  consider,  — 
If  such  a  one  as  you  should  match  with 

Spain, 
What  hinders  but  that  Spain  and  Eng- 
land join'd, 
Should  make  the  mightiest  empire  earth 

has  known. 
Spain  would  be  England  on  her  seas, 

and  England 
Mistress  of  the  Indies. 

Elizabeth.    It  may  chance,  that  Eng- 
land 
Will  be  the  mistress  of  the  Indies  yet, 
Without  the  help  of  Spain. 

Feria.  Impossible ; 


Except  you  put  Spain  down. 
Wide  ol'  the  mark  ev'n  for  a  madman's 
dream. 
Elizabeth.    Perhaps  ;  but  we  have  sea- 
men.    Count  de  Feria, 
1  take  it  that  the  King  hath  spoken  to 

you  ; 
But  is  Don  Carlos  such  a  goodly  match  ? 
Feria.    Don   Carlos,    Madam,   is   but 

twelve  years  old. 
Elizabeth.    Ay,  tell  the  King  that  J 
will  muse  upon  it  ; 
He  is  my  good  friend,  and  I  would  keep 

him  so  ; 
But — he  would   have  me  Catholic  of 

Kome, 
And  that  I  scarce  can  be  ;  and,  sir,  till 

now 
My  sister's  marriage,   and  my  father's 

marriages. 
Make  me  full  fain  to  live  and  die  a  maid. 
But  I  am  much  beholden  to  your  King. 
Have  you  aught  else  to  tell  me  ? 

Feria.  Nothing,  Madam, 

Save  that  methought  I  gather'd  from  the 

Queen 
That  she  would  .see  your  Grace  before  she 
—  died. 
Elizaheth.    God's  death  !  and  where- 
fore spake  you  not  before  ? 
We  dally  with  our  lazy  moments  here. 
And  hers  are  number'd.     Horses  there, 

without ! 
I  am  much  beholden  to  the  King,  your 

master. 

Why  did  you  keep  me  prating  ?    Horses, 

there  !        \Exit  Elizabeth,  &c. 

Feria.    So  from  a  clear  sky  falls  the 

thunderbolt ! 

Don    Carlos  ?    Madam,    if    you    marry 

Philip, 
Then  I  and  he  will  snaffle  your  "God's 

death," 
And  break  your  paces  in,  and  make  you 

tame  ; 
God's  death ,  forsooth —  you  do  not  know 
King  Philip.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  LONDON.  BEFORE  THE 
PALACE. 

A    light   burning  ivithin.      Voices  of  th^e 
night  passing. 

First.    Is  not  yon  light  in  the  Queen's 

chamber  ? 
Second.  A.J, 

They  say  she  's  dying. 


QUEEN   MARY. 


531 


First.  So  is  Cai-dinal  Pole. 

May  the  great  angels  join  their  wings, 

and  make 
Down  for  their  heads  to  heaven  ? 

Second.    Amen,  Come  on.       [^Exeunt. 

Two  Others. 
First.    There  's  the  Queen's  light.     1 

hear  she  cannot  live. 
Secmid.    God  curse  her  and  her  Leg- 
ate !     Gardiner  burns 
Already  ;  but  to  pay  tlieni  full  in  kind. 
The  hottest  hold  in  all  the  devil's  den 
Were  but  a   sort   of    winter ;    sir,    in 

Guernsey, 
I  watch'd  a  woman  buin  ;  and  in  her 

agony 
The  mother  came  upon  her  —  a  child 

was  born  — 
And,  sir,  they  hurl'd  it  back  into  tlie 

lire, 
That,  being  but  baptized  in   fire,  the 

babe 
Might  be   in   fire   forever.      Ah,  good 

neighbor. 
There  should  be  something  fierier  than 

fire 
To  yield  them  their  deserts. 

First.  Amen  to  all 

You  wish,  and  further. 

A  Third  Voice.  Deserts  !  Amen  to 
what  ?  Whose  deserts  ?  Yours  ?  You 
have  a  gold  ring  on  your  finger,  and 
soft  raiment  about  your  body  ;  and  is 
not  the  woman  uj)  yonder  sleeping  after 
all  she  has  done,  in  peace  and  quietness, 
on  a  soft  bed,  in  a  closed  room,  with 
light,  fire,  physic,  tendance ;  and  I 
have  seen  the  true  men  of  Christ  lying 
famine-dead  by  scores,  and  under  no 
ceiling  but  the  cloud  that  wept  on 
them,  not  for  them. 

First.    Friend,  tho'  so  late,  it  is  not 

safe  to  preach. 
You  had  best  go  home.  What  are  you  ? 
Third.  What  am  I  ?  One  who  cries 
continually  with  sweat  and  tears  to  the 
Lord  God  that  it  would  i)lease  Him  out 
of  His  infinite  love  to  break  down  all 
kingship  and  ([ueenship,  all  priesthood 
and  prelacy  ;  to  cancel  and  abolish  all 
bonds  of  human  allegiance,  all  the  mag- 
istracy, all  the  nobles,  and  all  the 
wealthy  ;  and  to  send  us  again,  accord- 
ing to  his  promise,  the  one  King,  the 
Christ,  and  all  things  in  common,  as  in 
the  day  of  tha  first  chui'cl),  when  Christ 
Jesus  was  King. 


First.    If  ever  I  heard  a  madman,  — 

let 's  away ! 
Why,  you  long-winded —    Sir,  you  go 

beyond  me. 
I  pride  myself  on  being  moderate. 
Good-night  !     Go  home.     BesideSj  yon 

curse  so  loud. 
The  watch  will  hear  you.    Get  you  horns 

at  once.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  v.— LONDON.     A  ROOM   IN 
THE  PALACE. 

A  Gallery  on  one  side.  The  moonlight 
streaming  through  a  range  of  ifindows 
on  the  wall  opjjosite.  Mary,  Lady 
Clarence,  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres, 
Alice.  Queen  pacing  the  Gallery. 
A  writing-table  infro7it.  Queen  cornea 
to  the  table  and  writes  and  goes  again, 
pacing  the  Gallery. 

Lady  Clarence.    Mine  eyes  are  dim  : 

what  hath  she  written  ?  read. 
Alice.    "I  am  dying,   Philip;  come 

to  nie." 
Lady    Magdalen.    There  —  up     and 

down,  poor  lady,  up  and  down. 
Alice.    And  how  her  shadow  crosses 
one  by  one 
The  mooidight  casements  pattern'd  on 

the  wall. 
Following  her  like   her  sorrow.      She 
turns  again. 
[Queen  sits  and  lorites,  and  goes  again. 
Lady  Clarence.    What  hath  she  writ- 
ten now  ? 
Alice.    Nothing;  but  "come,    come, 
come,"  and  all  awry. 
And  blotted  by  her  tears.     This  cannot 
last.  [Queen  retur^is. 

Mary.    I    whistle    to    the    bird    has 
broken  cage. 
And  all  in  vain.  [Sitting  down. 

Calais  gone  —  Guisnes  gone,  too  —  and 
Philip  gone  ! 
Lady  Clarence.    Dear  Madam^  Philip 
is  but  at  the  wars ; 
I  cannot  doubt  but  that  he  comes  again  \ 
And  he  is  with  you  in  a  measure  still. 
I  never  look'd  upon  so  fair  a  likeness 
As  your  great  King  in  armor  there,  his 

hand 
Upon  his  helmet. 

[Pointing  to  the  portrait  of  Philip 
on  the  loall. 

Mary.  Doth  he  not  look  noble  ? 

I    had    heard    of    him   in   battle   over 
seas, 


532 


QUEEN   MARY. 


And  I   would  have  my  warrior  all  in 

arms. 
He  said  it  was  not  courtly  to  stand  liel- 

meted 
Before  the  Queen.    He  had  his  gracious 

moment 
Altho'  you  '11  not  believe  me.     How  he 

smiles 
4s  if  he  loved  me  yet ! 
Lady  Clarence.  And  so  he  does. 

Mary.    He  never  loved  me  —  nay,  he 

could  not  love  me. 
it  was  his  father's  polic}'  against  France. 
1  am  eleven  years  older  than  he, 
Pool'  hoy.  [  fFeeps. 

Alice.    Tliat  was  a  lusty  boy  of  twen- 
ty-seven ;  [Jsidc. 
Poor  enough  in  God's  grace  ! 

Mary.  —  And  all  in  vain  ! 

The  Queen  of  Scots  is  married  to  the 

Dauphin, 
And  Charles,  the  lord  of  this  low  world, 

is  gone  ; 
And  all  his  wars  and  wisdoms  past  away ; 
And  in  a  moment  1  shall  follow  him. 
Lady  Clarence.    Nay,  dearest    Lady, 

see  your  good  phj'sician. 
Mary.    Drugs  —  but  he  knows  they 

cannot  help  me  —  says 
That  rest  is  all  —  tells  me  I  must  not 

think  — 
That  I  must  rest  —  I  shall  rest  by  and 

Catch  the  wild  cat,  cage  him,  and  when 

he  springs 
And  maims  himself  against  the  bars, 

say  "rest"  : 
Why,  you  must  kill  him  if  you  would 

have  him  rest  — 
Dead   or   alive  you  cannot  make   him 

happy. 
Lady    Clarence.    Your    Majesty    has 

lived  so  pure  a  life. 
And  done  such  mighty  things  by  Holy 

Churcli, 
I  trust  that  God  will  make  you  hapjiy 

yet. 
Mary.    What   is   the    strange    thing 

happiness  ?     Sit  down  here  : 
Tell  me  thine  happiest  hour. 

Lady  Clarence.  I  will,  if  that 

May  make  your  Grace  forget  yourself  a 

little. 
There  runs  a  shallow  brook  across  our 

field 
Por  twenty  miles,  where  the  black  crow 

flies  five, 


And  doth  so  bound  and  babble  all  the 

way 
As  if  itself  were  happy.     It  was  May- 
time, 
And  I  was  walking  with  the  man  1  loved. 
I  loved  him,  but  I  thought  I  was  not 

loved. 
And  both  were  silent,  letting  the  wild 

brook 
Speak  for  us  —  till  he  stoop'd  and  gath- 

er'd  one 
From  out  a  bed  of  thick  forget-me-nots, 
Look'd  hard  and  sweet  at  me,  ami  gave 

it  me, 

I  took  it,  tlio'  I  did  not  know  1  took  it, 

And  put  it  in  my  bosom,  and  all  at  once 

I  felt  his  arms  about  me,  and  his  lips  — 

Mary.    0   God !       I    have   been   too 

slack,  too  slack  ; 
There  are  Hot  Gospellers  even  among 

our  guards  — 
Nobles  we  dared  not  touch.     We  have 

but  burnt 
The  heretic  ))riest,  workmen,  and  women 

and  cliildren. 
Wet,  famine,  ague,  fever,  storm,  wreck, 

wrath,  — 
We  have  so  play'd  the  coward  ;  but  by 

God's  grace. 
We  'U  follow  Philiiys  leading,  and  set 

up 
The  Holy  Office  here — garner  the  wheat. 
And  burn  the  tares  with  unquenchable 

fire! 
Burn  !  — 

Fie,  what  a  savor  !  tell  the  cooks  to  close 
The  doors  of  all  the  offices  below. 
Latimer  ! 
Sir,    we   are   piivate   with   our  women 

here  — 
Ever  a  rough,  blunt,  and  uncourtly  feL 

low  — ■ 
Thou  light  a  torch  that  uevei'  will  go 

out  ! 
'T  is  out  —  mine  flames.     Women,  the 

Holy  Father 
Has  ta'eu  the  legateship  from  our  cousin 

Pole  — 
Was   that   well   done  ?  and   poor   Pole 

pines  of  it, 
As  I   do,   to  the  death.      I  am  but  a 

woman, 
1  have  no  power.  —  Ah,  weak  and  meek 

old  man. 
Sevenfold  dishonor'd  even  in  the  sight 
Of  thine  own  sectaries  — ■  No,  no.     No 

pardon  !  — 


QUEEN   MARY. 


533 


Why  that  was  false  :  there  is  the  right 

hand  still 
Beckons  me  hence. 
Sir,  you  were  burnt  for  heresy,  not  for 

treason, 
Remember  that !  't  was  I  and   Bonner 

did  it, 
And  Pole  ;  we  are  three  to  one  —  Have 

you  found  mercy  there, 
Grant  it  nie  here  :  and  see  he  smiles 

and  goes, 
Gentle  as  in  life. 
Alice.    Madam,     who     goes  ?      King 

Philip  ? 
Mary.    No,   Philip  comes  and  goes, 

but  never  goes. 
Women,  when  I  am  dead. 
Open  my  lieart,  and  there  you  will  find 

written 
Two  names,   Philip  and   Calais  ;  open 

his,  — 
So  tliat  lie  have  one,  — 
You    will    find    Philij)    only,    policy, 

policy,  — 
Ay,    worse  than  that  —  not   one   hour 

true  to  me  ! 
Foul  maggots  crawling  in  a  fester'd  vice  ! 
Adulterous  to  the  very  heart  of  Hell. 
Hast  thou  a  knife  ? 

Alice.    Ay,     Madam,    but    o'    God's 

mercy  — 
Mary.    Fool,  think'st  thou   I  would 

peril  mine  own  soul 
By  slaughter  of  the  body  ?    I  could  not, 

girl, 
Not  this  way  —  callous  with  a  constant 

stripe, 
Unwoundable.     Thy  knife  ! 

Alice.  Take  heed,  take  ]:eed  ! 

The  blade  is  keen  as  death. 

Mary.  This  Philip  shall  not 

Stare  in  upon  me  in  iny  haggardness  ; 
Old,  miserable,  diseased. 
Incapable  of  children.    Come  thou  down, 
[Cuts  out  the  2^icture  and  throivs  it 

doicn. 
Lie   there.     ( Wails. )     0  God,    I  have 

killed  my  Philip. 
Alice.  No, 

Madam,  you  liave  but  cut  the  canvas  out. 
We  can  replace  it. 

Mary.  All  is  well  then  ;  rest  — 

I  will  to  rest ;  he  said,  I  must  have  rest. 
[^Cries  of  "  Elizabeth  "  in  the  street. 
A  cry  !     What 's  that  ?     Elizabeth  ?  re- 
volt? 
A  new  Noithumberland,  auother  Wyatt? 


I  '11  fight  it  on  the   threshold   of  the 

giave. 
Lady  Clarence.    Madam,   your  I'oyal 

sister  conies  to  see  you. 
Mary.    1  will  not  see  her. 
Wlio  knows  if  Boleyn's  daughter  be  my 

sister  ? 
I  will  see  none  except  the  priest.    Your 

arm.  \_To  Lady  Clahence. 

0  Saint  of  Aragon,  with  that  sweet  worn 

smile 
Among  thy  patient  wjinkles  —  Help  me 

hence.  [Exeunt. 

The  Prikst  passes.      Enter   Elizabeth 
and  Sir  William  Cecil. 

Elizabeth.    Good  counsel  yours  — 

No  one  in  waiting  ?  still, 

As  if  the  chamberlain  were  Death  him- 
self! 

The  room  she  sleeps  in  —  is  not  this  the 
way? 

No,  that  way  there  are  voices.     Am  1 
too  late  ? 

Cecil .  .  .  God  guide  nie  lest  I  lose  the 
way.  [Exit  Elizabeth. 

Cecil.    Many  points  weather' d,  many 
perilous  ones. 

At  last  a  harbor  opens  ;  but  therein 

Sunk   rocks  —  tliey  need  find  steering 
—  much  it  is 

To   be   nor   mad,    nor   bigot  —  liave   a 
mind  — 

Not  let  Priests'  talk,  or  dream  of  worlds 
to  be, 

Miscolor    tilings    about    her  —  suddau 
touches 

For  him,  or  him  —  sunk  rocks  ;  no  pas- 
sionate faith  — 

But  —  if  let  be  —  balance  and  compro- 
mise ; 

Brave,  wary,  sane  to  the  heart  of  her  — 
a  Tudor 

School'd  by  the  shadow  of  death  —  a 
Bolej'u,  too. 

Glancing  across  the  Tudor  —  not  so  well. 

Enter  Alice. 

Hov/  is  the  good  Queen  now  ? 

Alice.  Away  from  Philip. 

Back  in  her  childhood  —  j'l'^'^tl'i^D   to 

her  mother 
Of  her  betrothal  to  tlie  Emperor  Charles, 
And  childlike-jealous  of  him  again  — 

and  once 
She  thank'd  her  father  sweetly  for  his 

book 


534 


QUEEN   MARY. 


Against    that    godless   German.      Ah, 

those  days 
Were  happy.     It  was  never  merry  world 
In  England,  since  the  Bible  came  among 
ns. 
Cecil.    And  who  says  that  ? 
Alice.    It    is    a    saying    among    the 

Catholics. 
Cecil.    It  never  will  be  merry  world 
in  England, 
Till  all  men  have  their  Bible,  rich  and 
poor. 
Alice.    The  Queen  is  dying,  or  you 
dare  not  say  it. 

Enter  Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth.    The  Queen  is  dead. 

Cecil.    Then   here    she    stands !    my 

homage. 
Elizabeth.    Slie    knew    me,    and    ac- 
knowledged me  her  heir,. 
Pray'd  me  to  pay  her  debts,  and  keep 

the  Faith  ; 
Then  claspt  the  cross,  and  pass'd  away 

in  peace. 
I  left  her  lying  still  and  beautiful. 
More  beautiful  than  in  life.    Why  would 
you  vex  yourselt^ 


Poor  sister  ?   Sir,  I  swear  I  have  no  heart 
To  be  your  Queen.     To  reign  is  restless 

fence. 
Tierce,  quart,   and  trickery.     Peace  is 

with  the  dead. 
Her  life  was  winter,  for  her  spring  was 

nipt: 
And  she  loved  much  :  pray  God  she  be 

forgiven. 
Cecil.    Peace    with    the    dead,    who 

never  were  at  peace! 
Yet  she  loved  one  so  much  —  I  needs 

must  say  — - 
That  never  English  monarch  dying  left 
England  so  little. 

Elizabeth.  But  with  Cecil's  aid 

And  others,  if  our  person  be  secured 
From  traitor  stabs  —  we  will  make  Eng- 
land great. 

Enter  Paget,  and  other  Lords  of  thk 
Council,  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall,  etc. 

Lords.    God  save  Elizabeth,  the  Queen 

of  England ! 
Bagenhall.    God  save  the  Crown :  the 

Papacy  is  no  more. 
Paget  (aside).    Are  we  so  sure  of  that  '1 
Acclamation.       God  save  the  Quuea ) 


HAROLD.  535 


HAR'OLD. 


TO  HIS  EXCELLENCT 
THE    RIGHT    HON.    LORD    LYTTON, 

VICEROY   AND   GOVERNOR-GENERAL  OF   INDIA. 

Mt  dear  Lord  Lttton,  —  After  old-world  records,  —  such  as  the  Bayeux  tapestry  and  the  Ro- 
man de  Rou,  —  Edward  Freeman's  History  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  and  your  father's  Historical 
Romance  treating  of  the  same  times,  have  been  mainly  helpful  to  me  in  writing  this  Drama.  Your 
father  dedicated  his  "  Harold  ''  to  my  father's  brother  ;  allow  me  to  dedicate  my  "  Harold  "  to 
yourself. 


A.  Tenntson. 


SHOW-DAY  AT  BATTLE  ABBEY,  1876. 

A  garden  here  —  May  breath  and  bloom  of  bpring  — 

The  cuckoo  yonder  from  an  English  elm 

Crying  "  with  my  false  egg  I  overwhelm 

The  native  nest  "  :  and  fancy  hears  the  ring 

Of  harness,  and  that  deathfnl  arrow  .=ing, 

And  Saxon  battle  axe  clang  on  Norman  helm. 

Here  rose  the  dragon-banner  of  our  realm  : 

Here  fought,  here  fell,  our  Nornian-flanderVl  king. 

O  Garden  blossoming  out  of  Engli.'h  blood  ! 

O  strange  hate-healer  Time  1     We  stroll  and  stare 

Where  might  made  right  eight  hundred  years  ago  ; 

Might,  right?  ay  good,  so  all  things  make  for  good  — 

But  he  and  he,  if  soul  be  soul,  are  where 

Bach  stands  full  face  with  all  he  did  below. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

King  Edward  the  Confessor. 

Stigand  (created  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  by  the  Antipope  Benedict). 

Albsed  (Archbishop  of  York.) 

The  Norman  Bishop  of  London'. 

Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex,  aftencards  King  of  England  ' 

TosTiG,  Earl  of  Northvmhria 

GuRTH,  Earl  of  East  Anglia  ■  Sons  of  Godwin, 

Leofwin,  Earl  of  Kent  and  Essex 

WULFNOTH. 

CoDNT  William  of  Normandy. 

William  Rufus. 

William  Malet  *  (a  Norman  JVoble). 

ET>wit^,  Earl  of  Mercia  rr„,,.]sonsofAlfgarofMercia. 

MoRVAR,  Earl  of  Northumbria  after  Tostig )  j      j^       j 

Gamel  {a  Northumbrian  Thane). 
Gut  (  Count  of  Pontliieu). 
Rolf  (a  Ponthieu  Fisherman). 
Hugh  Margot  (a  Norman  Monk). 
OsGOD  and  Athflric  (  Canons  from  Waltham). 
The  Queen  (Edicard  the  Confessor^ s  Wife.  Daughter  of  Godtvin). 
Aldwtth  (Daughter  of  Alfgar  and  Widow  of  Griffylh,  King  of  Wales). 
EorTH  (  Ward  of  King  Edward). 
Courtiers,  Earls  and  Thanes,  Men-at-Arms,  Canons  of  Waltham,  Fishermen,  etc. 

*  Compater  Heraldi,  quidam  partim  Normann'>8  et  Anglue.  —  Guy  of  Amiens. 


536 


HAROLD. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. —  LONDON.     THE  KING'S 
PALACE. 

(A  comet  seen  through  the  open  vdndoio. )  • 

Aldwtth,  Gamel,   Courtiers    {talking 
together). 

First  Courtier.    Lo  !  there  once  more 

—  this  is  the  seventh  night  ! 
Yon    grimly-glaring,    treble-brandish'd 

seourge 
Of  England  ! 

Second  Courtier.    Horrible  ! 
First  Courtier.    Look  yon,  there  's  a 
star 
That  dances  in  it  as  mad  with  agony  ! 
Third  Courtier.    Ay,  like  a  s[iirit  in 
hell  who  skips  and  flies 
To  right  and  left,  and  caunot  scape  the 
flame. 
Second  Coitrtier.    Steam'd         upward 
from  the  nndescendible 
Abysm. 

JFirst  Courtier.    Or  floated  downward 
from  the  throne 
Of  God  Almighty. 

Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means  ? 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady  ! 

Aldwyth.    Doth  this  aflVight  thee  ? 
Gamel.  Mightily,  my  dear  lady  ! 

Aldwyth.    Stand  by  me  then,  and  look 
iipon  my  face. 
Not  on  the  comet. 

Enter  Morcar. 

Brother  !  why  so  pale  ? 
Morcar.    It  glares  in  heaven,  it  flares 
upon  the  Thames, 
The  people  are  as  thick  as  bees  below. 
They  hum  like  bees, — they  cannot  speak 

—  for  awe  ; 

Look  to  the  skies,  then  to  the  river, 

strike 
Their  hearts,  and  hold  their  babies  up 

to  it. 
I  think  that  they  would  Molochize  them 

too, 
To  have  the  heavens  clear. 

Aldwyth.  They  fright  not  me. 

Enter  Leofwin,  after  him  Gurth. 

Ask  thou  Lord  Leofwin  what  he  thinks 
of  this  ! 
Morcar.    Lord  Leofwin,  dost  thou  be- 
lieve, that  these 


Three  rods  of  blood-red  irre  up  yonder 

mean 
The  doom  of  England  and  the  wrath  ol 
Heaven  ? 
Bishop  of  London  (passing).    Did     ye 
not  cast  with  bestial  violence 
Our  holy  Norman  bishops  down  from  all 
Their  thrones  in  England  ?     I  alone  re- 
main. 
Why  .should  not  Heaven  be  wroth  ? 
Leofwin.  With  us,  or  thee  ? 

Bishop  of  London.    Did  ye  not  outlaw 
your  archbishop  Robert, 
Robert  of  Jumieges  —  well-iugh  murdei 

him  too  ? 
Is  there    no   reason  for   the  wrath   of 
Heaven  ? 
Leofwin.    Why   then    the   wrath  of 
Heaven  hath  three  tails, 
The  devil  only  one. 

[Exit  Bishop  of  London. 

Enter  Archbishop  Stigand. 

Ask  our  Archbishop. 
Stigand  should  know  the  purposes  of 
Heaven. 
Stigand.    Not  I.     I  cannot  read  the 
face  of  heaven. 
Perhaps  our  vines  will  grow  the  better 
for  it. 
Leofwin  {laughing).    He  can  but  read 

the  king's  face  on  his  coins. 
Stigand.    Ay,  ay,  j'^oung  lord,  there  the 

king's  face  is  power. 
Gurth.   0  father,  mock  not  at  a  public 
fear. 
But  tell  us,  is  this  pendent  hell  in  heaven 
A  harm  to  England  ? 

Stigand.         Ask  it  of  King  Edward  ! 
And  may  he  tell  thee,  /  am  a  harm  to 

England. 
Old  uncanonical  Stigand  —  ask  of  we 
Who  had  my  pallium  from  an  Antipope  i 
Not  he  the  man  —  for  in  our  windy  world 
What  's   up  is  faith,   what  's  down  is 

heresy. 
Our  friends,  the  Normans,  holp  to  shake 

his  chair. 
I  have  a  Norman  fever  on  me,  son. 
And  cannot  answer  sanely.  .  .  .  What  it 

means? 
Ask  our  broad  Earl. 

[Pointing  to  Harold,  who  enters. 
Earold  {seeing  Gamel).    Hail,  Gamel, 
son  of  Orm  ! 
Albeit  no  rolling  stone,  my  good  friend 
Gamel, 


HAROLD. 


537 


Ttou  hast  rounded  siiioe  we  met.     Thy 

life  at  homo 
Is  easier  than  mine  here.     Look  !  am  I 

not 
Work-wau,  flesh-fallen  ? 

Gamel.         Art  thou  sick,  good  Earl  ? 
Harold.    Sick  as  an  autumn  swallow 

for  a  voyage, 
Sick  for  an  idle  week  of  hawk  and  hound 
Beyond   the   sens  —  a  change  !     When 

earnest  thou  hither? 
Gamel.    To-day,  good  Earl. 
Harold.     Is  the  North  quiet,  Gamel  ? 
Gamel.    Nay,  there  be  murmurs,  for 

thy  brother  breaks  us 
With  over-ta.xing  —  quiet,  ay,  as  yet  — 
Nothing  as  yet. 

Harold.    Stand    by   him,    mine    old 

friend, 
Thou  art  a  great  voice  in  Northumber- 
land ! 
Advise  him  :  speak  him  sweetly,  he  will 

hear  thee. 
He  is  passior.ate  but  honest.    Stand  thou 

by  him  ! 
More  talk  of  this  to-morrow,  if  yon  weird 

sign 
Not  blast  us  in  our  dreams.  Well,  father 

Stigand  — 

[To  Stigand,  who  advances  to  him. 
Stigavd  (pointhui  to  the  comet).    War 

there,  my  son  ?  is  that  the  doom 

of  England  ? 
Harold.    Why  not  the  doom  of  all  the 

world  as  well  ? 
For  all  the  world  sees  it  as  well  as  Eng- 
land. 
These  meteors  came  and  went  before  our 

day. 
Not  harming  any  :  it  threatens  us  no 

more 
Than  French  or  Norman.     War  ?   the 

worst  that  follows 
Things  that  seem  jerk'd  out  of  the  com- 
mon rut 
Of  Nature  is  the  hot  religious  fool. 
Who,  seeing  war  in  heaven,  for  heaven's 

credit 
Makes  it  on  earth  :  but  look,  where  Ed- 
ward draws 
A  faint  foot  hither,  leaning  upon  Tostig. 
He  hath  learnt  to  love  our  Tostig  much 

of  late. 
Leoficin.    And  he  hath  learnt,  despite 

the  tiger  in  him. 
To  sleek  and  supple  himself  to  the  king's 

hand. 


Gurth.    I  trust  the  kingly  touch  that 
cures  the  evil 
May  serve  to  ciiarni  the  tiger  out  of  him. 
Leofivin.    He  hath  as  much  of  cat  as 
tiger  in  him. 
Our  Tostig  loves  the  hand  and  not  the 
man. 
Harold.    Nay  !     Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Enter  King,  Queen  and  Tostig. 

Edicard.  In  heaven  signs  ! 

Signs   upon  earth  !   signs  everywhere  ! 

your  Piiests 
(hoss,  v,-orldly,  simoniacal,  unlearn'd  ! 
They  scarce  oau  read  their  Psalter  ;  and 

your  churclies 
Uncouth,   unhandsome,   while  in  Nor- 

manland 
God  speaks  thro'  abler  voices,   as   He 

dwells 
In  statelier  shrines.     I  say  not  this,  as 

being 
Half  Norman-blooded,  nor  as  some  have 

held, 
Because  I  love  the  Norman  better —  no. 
But  dreading  God's  revenge  upon  this 

realm 
For  narrowness  and  coidness :  and  I  say  it 
For  the  last  time  perchance,  before  I  go 
To  find  the  sweet  refreshment  of  the 

Saints. 
I  have  lived  a  life  of  utter  purity  : 
I  have  builded  the  great  church  of  Holy 

Peter  : 
1  have  wrought  miracles  —  to  God  the 

glory  — 
And  miracles  will  in  my  name  be  wrought 
Hereafter.  —  I  have  fought  the  light  and 

go  — 
I  see  the  flashing  of  the  gates  of  pearl  — ■ 
And  it  is  well  with  me,  tho'  some  of  you 
Have  scorn'd  me  —  ay  —  but  after  I  am 

gone 
Woe,  woe   to   England  !   I  have  had  a 

vision  ; 
The  seven  sleepers  in  the  cave  at  Ephesus 
Have  turn'd  from  right  to  left. 

Harold.  My  most  dear  Master, 

What  matters  ?  let  them  turn  from  left 

to  right 
And  sleep  again. 

Tostig.         Too  hardy  with  thy  king  ! 
A  life  of  prayer  and  fasting  well  may 

see 
Dee])er  into  the  mysteries  of  heaven 
Thau  thou,  good  brother. 

Aldwyth  {aside).     Sees  he  into  thine, 


538 


HAROLD. 


That  thou  wouldst  have  his  promise  for 
the  crown  ? 
Edward.    Tostig  says  true  ;  my  son, 
thou  art  too  hard, 
N"ot  stagger'd  by  this  ominous  earth  and 

heaven  : 
But  heaven  and  earth  are  threads  of  the 

same  loom, 
Play  into  one  another,  and  weave  the 

web 
That  may  confound  thee  yet. 

Harold.  Nay,  I  trust  not, 

For  I  have  served  thee  long  and  honestly. 

Edward.    I  know  it,  son  ;  I  am  not 

thankless :  thou 

Hast  broken  all  my  foes,  lighten'd  for 

me 
The  weight  of  this  poor  crown,  and  left 

me  time 
And  peace  for  prayer  to  gain  a  better 

one. 
Twelve  years  of  service  !    England  loves 

^ee  for  it. 
Thou  art  the  man  to  rule  her  ! 

Aldioyth  (aside).  So,  not  Tostig  ! 

Harold.    And  after  those  twelve  years 
a  boon,  my  king. 
Respite,  a  holiday  :  thyself  wast  wont 
To  love  the  chase  :  thy  leave  to  set  my 

feet 
On  board,  and  hunt  and  hawk  beyond 
the  seas  ! 
Edivard.    What,    with  this    flaming 

horror  overhead  ? 
Harold.    Well,  when  it  passes  then. 
Edward.  Ay  if  it  pass. 

Go  not  to  Normandy  —  go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy. 
Harold.    And  wherefore  not,  my  king, 
to  Normandy  ? 
Is  not  my  brother  Wulfnoth  hostage 

there 
For  my  dead  father's  loyalty  to  thee  ? 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  hence  and  bring  him 
home. 
Ediuard.    Not   thee,   my   son :   some 

other  messenger. 
Harold.    And  why  not  me,  my  lord, 
to  Normandy  ? 
Is  not  the  Norman  Count  thy  friend  and 
mine  ? 
Edward.    I  pray  thee,  do  not  go  to 

Normandy. 
Harold.    Because  my  father  drove  the 
Normans  out 
Of  England  ?  —  that  was  many  a  summer 
gone  — 


Forgotten   and   forgiven   oy  them  and 
thee. 
Edivard.    Harold,  1  will  not  yield  thee 

leave  to  go. 
Harold.    Why  tlien  to  Flanders.     I 
will  hawk  and  hunt 
In  Flanders. 
Edivard.    Be  there  not  fair  woods  and 
fields 
In  England?    Wilful,  wilful.    Go— the 

Saints 
Pilot  and  prosper  all  thy  wandering  out 
And   homeward.     Tostig,    I    am    faint 

again. 
Son  Harold,  I  will  in  and  pray  for  thee. 
\^E:cit,  leaning  on  Tostig,  and  followed 
by  Stigand,  Morcar,  and  Court- 
iers. 
Harold.    What  lies  upon  the  mind  of 
our  good  king 
That  he  should  harp  this  way  on  Nor- 
mandy ? 
Queen.    Brother,  the  king  is  wiser  than 
he  seems  ; 
And  Tostig  knows  it ;  Tostig  loves  the 
king. 
Harold.    And  love  should  know  ;  and 
—  be  the  king  so  wise,  — 
Then  Tostig   too  were   wiser  than  he 

seems. 
I  love  the  man  but  not  his  fantasies. 

Re-enter  Tostig. 

Well,  brother. 

When  didst  thou  hear  from  thy  Nor- 
thumbria  ? 
Tostig.    When  did  1  hear  aught  but 
this  "  When  "  from  thee  ? 
Leave  me  alone,  brother,  with  my  Nor- 

thumbria : 
She  is  my  mistress,  let  me  look  to  her! 
The  King  hath  made  me  Earl ;  make  me 

not  fool ! 
Nor  make  the  King  a  fool,  who  made 
me  Earl ! 
Harold.    No,    Tostig  —  lest    I   make 
myself  a  fool 
Who  made  thee  King  who  made  thee, 
make  thee  Earl. 
Tostig.   Why  chafe  me  then  ?    Thou 

knowest  I  soon  go  wild. 
Gurth.    Come,  come  !  as  yet  thou  art 
not  gone  so  wild 
But  thou  canst  hear  the  best  and  wisest 
of  us. 
Harold.    So  says  old  Gurth,  not  I; 
yet  hear  !  thine  earldom, 


HAROLD. 


539 


Tostig,   hath  been  a  kingdom.     Their 

old  crown 
Is  yet  a  force  among  them,  a  sun  set 
But  leaving  light  enough  for  Alfgar's 

house 
To   strike   thee   down   by  —  nay,    this 

giiastly  glare 
May  heat  their  fancies! 

Tosti(].  My  most  worthy  brother, 

That  art  the  quietest  man  in  all  the 

world  — 
Ay,  ay  and  wise  in  peace  and  great  in 

war  — 
Pray  God  the  pet  tile  choose  thee  for 

their  king  '. 
But  all  the  powers  of  the  house  of  God- 
win 
Are  not  enframed  in  thee. 

Harold.  Thank  the  Saint.s,  no  ! 

But  thou  hast  drain  d  them  shallow  by 

thy  tolls, 
And  thou  art  ever  here  about  the  King  : 
Thine   absence  well   may  seem  a  want 

of  care. 
Cling  to  their  love  ;  for,  now  the  sons 

of  Godwin 
Sit  topmost  in  the  field  of  England,  envy, 
Like  the  rough  bear  beneath  the  tree, 

good  brother, 
Waits  till  the  man  let  go. 

Tostig.  Good  coun.sel  truly  ! 

I  heard  from  my  Northumbria  yesterday. 

Harold.    How  goes  it  then  with  thy 

North  umbria?     Well? 
Tostig.    And  wouldst  thou  that  it  went 

aught  else  than  well  ? 
Harold.    I  would  it  went  as  well  as 
with  mine  earldom, 
Leofwin's  and  Gurth's. 

Tostig.  Ye  govern  milder  men. 

Gurth.    We  have  made  them  milder 

by  just  government. 
Tostig.    Ay,  ever  give  youiselves  your 

own  good  woid. 
Leofwin.    An  honest  gift,  by  all  the 
Saints,  if  giver 
And  taker  be  but  honest !  but  they  bribe 
Each  other,  and  so  often,  an  honest  world 
Will  not  believe  them. 

Harold.  I  may  tell  thee,  Tostig, 

I  heard  from  thy  jSTorthumberland  to- 
day. _   ■ 
Tostig.    From  spies  of  thine  to  spy  my 
nakedness 
In  my  poor  North  ! 

Harold.     There  is  a  movement  there, 
A  blind  one  —  nothing  yet. 


Tostig.  Crush  it  at  once 

With  all  the  power  I  have  !  —  I  must  — 
I  will  !  — 

Crush  it  half-horn  !     Fool  still  ?  or  wis- 
dom there. 

My  wise  head-shaking  Harold  ? 

Harold.  Malce  not  thou 

The  nothing  something.     Wisdom  when 
in  power 

And  wisest,  should  not  frown  as  Power, 
but  smile 

As  kindness,  watching  all,  till  the  true 
must 

Shall  make  her  strike  as  Power :  but 
when  to  strike  — 

0  Tostig,    0   dear    brother— If   they 

piance, 
Rein  in,  not  lash  them,  lest  they  rear 

and  run 
And  break  both  neck  and  axle. 

Tostig.  Good  again ! 

Good  counsel  tho'  scarce  needed.     Pour 

not  water 
In  the  full  vessel  running  out  at  top 
To  swanij)  the  house. 

Ltoficiii.       Nor  thou  be  a  wild  thing 
Out  of  the  waste,  to  turn  and  bite  the 

hand 
Would  help  thee  from  the  trap. 

Tostig.  Thou  playest  in  tune. 

Leofwin.    To  the  deaf  adder  thee,  that 

wilt  not  dance 
However  wisely  charm'd. 

Tostig.  No  more,  no  more ! 

Gurth.    I   likewise   cry   "no  more." 

Unwholesome  talk 
For  Godwin's    house !     Leofwin,    thou 

hast  a  tongue  ! 
Tostig,  thou  lookstas  thou  wouldst  spring 

upon  him 
St.  Olaf,  not  while  I  am  by  !     Come, 

come. 
Join  hands,  let  brethren  dwell  in  unity  ; 
Let   kith  and   kin  stand   close  as  our 

shield-wall, 
Who  breaks  us  then  ?     I  say,  thou  hast 

a  tongue, 
And  Tostig  is  not  stout  enough  to  bear  it. 
Vex  him  not,  Leofwin. 

Tostig.  No,  I  am  not  vext,  — 

Altho'  ye  seek  to  vex  me,  one  and  all. 

1  have  to  make  re2)ort  of  my  good  earl- 

dom 
To  the  good  king  who  gave  it  —  not  to 

you  — 
Not  any  of  you.  —  I  am  not  vext  at 

all. 


540 


HAROLD. 


Harold.    The  king  ?  the  king  is  ever 

at  his  prayers  ; 
In  all  that  handles  matter  of  the  state 
I  am  the  king. 

Tostig.  That  shalt  thou  never  be 

If  I  can  thwart  thee. 

Harold.    Brother,  brother  ! 

Tostig.  Away !         [^Exit  Tostig. 

Queen.    Spite  of  this  grisly  star  ye 

three  must  gall 
Poor  Tostig. 

Leofwin.    Tostig,  sister,  galls  himself. 
He  cannot  smell  a  rose  but  pricks  his 

nose 
Against  the  thorn,  and  rails  against  the 

rose. 
Queen.    I  am  the  only  rose  of  all  the 

stock 
That  never  thorn'd  him  ;  Edward  loves 

him,  so 
Ye  hate  liim.     Harold  always  hated  him. 
Why  —  how  they  fought  when  boys  — 

and,  Holy  Mary  ! 
How  Harold  used  to  beat  him  ! 

Harold.  Why,  boys  will  fight. 

Leofwin  would  often  fight  me,  and  I 

beat  him. 
Even  old  Gurth  would  fight.     I   had 

much  ado 
To  hold  mine  own  against  old  Gurth. 

Old  Gurth, 
We  fouglit  like  great  states  for  grave 

cause  ;  but  Tostig  — 
On  a  sudden  —  at  a  something  —  for  a 

nothing — ■ 
The  boy  would  fist  me  hard,  and  when 

we  fought 
I  conquer'd,  and  he  loved  me  none  the 

less, 
Till  thou  wouldst  get  him  all  apart,  and 

tell  him 
That  where  he  was  but  worsted,  he  was 

wrcng'd. 
Ah  !  thou  hast  taught  the  king  to  spoil 

him  too  ; 
Now  the  spoilt  child  sways  both.     Take 

heed,  take  heed  ; 
Thou  art  the  Queen  ;  ye  are  boy  and  girl 

no  more  : 
Side  not  with  Tostig  in  any  \'iolence. 
Lest  thou  be  sideways  guilty  of  the  vio- 
lence. 
Queen.    Come,  fall  not  foul  on  me.    I 

leave  thee,  brother. 
Harold.    Nay,  my  good  sister  — 
[Exeunt  Queen,  Harold,  Gurth,«?ic^ 

Leofwin. 


Aldioyth.         Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 
What  thinkest  thou  this  means  ? 

[Poi7iting  to  the  comet, 
Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady, 

War,  waste,  plague,  famine,  all  malig- 
nities. 
Aldwyth.    It  means  the  fall  of  Tostig 

from  his  earldom. 
Gamel.    That  were  too  small  a  matter 

for  a  comet ! 
Aldwyth.    It  means  the  lifting  of  the 

house  of  Alfgar. 
Gamel.    Too  small  !    a  comet  would 

not  show  for  that  ! 
Aldwyth.    Not  small  for  thee,  if  thou 

canst  compass  it. 
Gamel.    Thy  love  ? 
Aldwyth.    As  much  as  I  can  give  thee, 
man  ; 
This  Tostig  is,  or  like  to  be,  a  tyrant ; 
Stir  up  thy  people  :  oust  him  ! 

Gamel.  And  thy  love  ? 

Aldwyth.    As  much  as  thou  canst  bear. 
Gamel.  I  can  bear  all, 

And  not  be  giddy. 

Aldwyth.    No  more  now  :  to-morrow. 

SCENE  II.  —  IN  THE  GARDEN.  THE 
KING'S  HOUSE  NEAR  LONDON. 
SUNSET. 

Edith.  Mad  for  thy  mate,  jiassionate 
nightingale.  .  .  . 

I  love  thee  for  it  —  ay,  but  stay  a  mo- 
ment ; 

He  can  but  stay  a  moment :  he  is  go- 
ing. 

I  fain  would  hear  him  coming  ! ...  near 
me  .  .  .  near. 

Somewhere  —  To  draw  him  nearer  with 
a  charm 

Like  thine  to  thine. 

{Siriging.) 

Love  is  come  with  a  song  and  a  smile. 
Welcome  Love  with  a  smile  and  a  song : 
Love  can  stay  but  a  little  while. 
Why  cannot  he  stay?    They  call  him  away ; 
Ye  do  him  wrong,  ye  do  him  wrong ; 
Love  will  stay  for  a  wliole  life  long. 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold.    The  nightingales  at  Haver-  • 
ing-in-the-bower 

Sang  out  their  loves  so  loud,  that  Ed- 
ward's prayers 

Were  deafen'd,  and  he  pray'd  them 
dumb,  and  tlius 


HAROLD. 


541 


I  dumb  thee  too,  my  wingless  nightin- 
gale !  [KissiiKj  her. 
Edith.    Thou  art  my  music  !     Would 

their  wings  were  mine 
To  follow  thee  to  Flanders  !     Must  thou 

go? 
Harold.    Xot  must,  but  will.      It  is 

but  for  one  moon. 
Edith.    Leaving  so  many  foes  in  Ed- 
ward's hall 
To  league  against  thy  weal.     The  Lady 

Aldwyth 
Was  here  to-day,  and  when  she  touch'd 

on  thee. 
She  stammer'd  in  l.er  hate  ;  I  am  sure 

she  hates  thee, 
Pants  for  thy  blood. 
Harold.    Well,     I    have    given     her 

cause  — 
1  fear  no  woman. 

Edith.  Hate  not  one  who  felt 

Some  pity  for  thy  hater  !   I  am  sure 
Her  morning  wanted  sunlight,  she  so 

praised 
The  convent  and  lone  life  —  « ithin  the 

pale  — 
Beyond  the  passion .     Nay  —  she  held 

with  Edward, 
At  least  methought  she  held  with  holy 

Edward, 
That  marriage  was  half  sin. 

Harold.  A  lesson  worth 

Finger   and   thumb  —  thus   (snaps   his 

fimjcrs) .     And  my  answer  to  it  — 
See  here  —  an  interwovon  H  and  E  ! 
Take  thou  this  ring  ;  I  will  demand  his 

ward 
From  Edward  when  I  come  again.     Ay, 

would  she  ? 
She   to   shut    up  my   blossom    in    the 

dark  ! 
Thou  art  my  nun,  thy  cloister  in  mine 

arms. 
Edith  (taking  the  ring).  Yea,  but  Earl 

Tostig  — 
Harold.  That 's  a  tnier  fear  ! 

For  if  the  North  take  fire,  I  should  be 

back  ; 
I  shall  be,  soon  enough. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  last  night 

An   evil   dream    that    ever   came    and 

went  — 
Harold.    A  gnat  that  vext  thy  pillow  ! 

Had  I  been  by 
I  would  have  spoil'd  his  horn.     My  g'rl, 

what  was  it  ? 
Edith,    Oh  !  that  thou  wert  not  going ! 


For  so  methought  it  was  oui  mari-iage- 
morn. 

And  while  we  stood  together,  a  dead  man 

Rose  from  behind  the  altar,  toie  away 

My  marriage  ring,  and  rent  my  bridal 
veil  ; 

.Vnd  then  I  turn'd,  and  saw  the  church 
all  fiird 

With  dead  men  upright  fiom  their  graves, 
and  all 

The  dead  men  made  at  thee  to  murder 
thee. 

But  thou  didst  back  thyself  against  a 
pillar. 

And  strike  among  them  with  thy  battle- 
axe  — 

There,  what  a  dnam  ! 

Harold.    Well,  well  —  a  dream  —  no 

more  ! 
Edith.    Did  not  Heaven  speak  to  men 

in  dreams  of  old  < 
Harold.    Ay— well —  of  old.     I  tell 
thee  what,  my  child  ; 

Thou  hast  misread  this  merry  dream  of 
thine, 

Taken  the  rifted  pillars  of  the  wood 

For  smooth  stone  columns  of  the  sanc- 
tuary, 

The  .shadows  of  a  hundred  fat  dead  deer 

For  dead  men's  ghosts.     True,  that  the 
battle-axe 

Was  out  of  place  ;  it  should  have  been 
the  bow.  — 

Come,  thou  shalt  dream  no  more  such 
dreams  ;  1  swear  it. 

By  mine  own  eyes  —  and  these  two  sap- 
phires—  the.se 

Twin  rubies,  thnt  are  amulets  against  all 

The  kisses  of  all  kind  of  womankind 

In  Flander.s,   till  the  sea  shall  roll  me 
back 

To  tumble  at  thy  feet. 

Edith.        That  would  but  shame  me. 

Rather  than  make  me  vain.     The  sea 
may  roll 

Sand,  .shingle,  shore-weed,  not  the  living 
rock 

Which  guards  the  land. 

Harold.  Except  it  be  a  soft  one, 

And  undereaten  to  the  fall.     Mine  am- 
ulet. .  .  . 

This  last .  .  .  upon  thine  eyelids,  to  shut 
in 

A   happier   dream.      Sleep,   sleep,   and 
thou  shalt  see 

My  grevhounds  fleeting  like  a  beam  of 
light. 


542 


HAEOLD. 


And  hear  my  peregrine  and  her  bells  in 

lieaveii  ; 
And  other  bells  on  earth,  which  yet  are 

heaven's  ; 
Guess  what  they  be. 

Edith.     He  cannot  guess  who  knows. 
Farewell,  my  king. 
Harold.    Noi    yet,    but    then  —  my 
queen.  \_Exeunt. 

Enter  Aldwyth//'o»i  the  thicket. 

Aldwyth.    The  kiss  that  charms  thine 

eyelids  into  sleep, 
Will  hold  mine  waking.     Hate  him  ?    I 

coukl  love  him 
More,  tenfold,   than  this  fearful  child 

can  do ; 
Griffyth  I  hated  :  why  not  hate  the  foe 
Of  England  ?     Gritfyth  when  1  saw  him 

Hee, 
Chased  deer-like  up  his  mountains,  all 

the  blood 
That    should    have    only    pulsed    for 

Gritfyth,  beat 
For  his  pursuer.     I  love  him  or  think  1 

love  him. 
If  he  were  ICing  of  England,  I  his  queen, 
I  might  be  sure  of  it.     Nay,  I  do  love 

him.  — 
She  must  be   cloister'd  somehow,   lest 

the  king 
Should  yield  his  ward  to  Harold's  will. 

What  harm  ? 
She  hath  but  blood  enough  to  live,  not 

love.  — 
When  Harold  goes  and  Tostig,  .shall  I 

play 
The    craftier  Tostig  with   him  ?   fawn 

upon  him  ? 
Chime  in  with  all  1    "  O  thou  more  saint 

than  king  !" 
And  that  were  true  enough.    "  0  ble-ssed 

I'elics  ! " 
"0  Holy  Peter  !  "    If  he  found  me  thus, 
Harold  might  hate  me  ;  he  is  broad  and 

honest, 
Breathing  an  easy  gladness  .  .  .  not  like 

Aldwyth  .  .  . 
For  which  1  strangely  love  him.    Should 

not  England 
Love  Alilwyth,   if  she   stay  the  feuds 

that  part 
The  sons  of  Godwin  from  the  sons  of 

Alfgar 
By  such  a  mrirrvine?     Courage,  noble 

Aldwyth!' 
Let  all  thy  people  bless  thee  ! 


Our  wild  Tostig, 
Edward  hath  made  him  Earl :  he  would 

be  king :  — 
The  dog  that  snapt  the  shadow,  dropt 

tlie  bone.  — 
I  trust  he  may  do  well,  this  Gamel, 

whom 
I  play  upon,  that  he  may  play  the  note 
Whereat  the  dog  shall  howl  and  run, 

and  Harold 
Hear  the  king's  music,  all  alone  with 

him, 
Pronounced  his  heir  of  England. 
I  see  the  goal  and  half  the  way  to  it.  — 
Peace-lover  is  our  Harold  for  the  sake 
Of  England's  wholeness  —  so  —  to  shake 

the  North 
With  earth([uake  and  disruption  —  some 

division  — 
Then  fling  mine  own  fair  person  iu  the 

A  sacrifice  to  Harold,  a  peace-offering, 
A  scape-goat  marriage  —  all  the  sins  of 

both 
The  houses  on  mhie  head  —  then  a  fair 

life 
And  bless  the  Queen  of  England. 
Morcar  [coming  from  t/ie  thicket).    Art 
thou  assured 
By  this,  that  Harold  loves  but  Edith? 

Aldwyth.  Morcar  I 

Wjiy  creepst  thou  like  a  timorous  beast 

of  prey 
Oat  of  the  bush  by  night? 

Morcar.  I  foUow'd  thee. 

Aldwyth.    Follow  my  lead,  and  1  will 

make  thee  earl. 
Morcar.    What  lead  then? 
Aldwyth.    Thou  shalt  flash  it  secretly 
Among  the  good   Northumbrian   folk, 

that  I  — 
That  Harold  loves  me  —  yea,  and  pres- 
ently 
That  I  and  Harold  are  betroth'd  —  and 

last  — 
Perchance  that  Harold  wrongs  me  ;  tho' 

I  would  not 
That  it  should  come  to  that. 

Morcar.  I  will  both  flash 

And  thunder  for  thee. 

Alchvyth.  I  said  "secretly"  ; 

It  is  the  flash  that  murders,  the  poor 

thunder 
Never  hnrni'd  head. 

Morcar.    But  thunder  may  bring  dowD 
That  which  the  flash  hath  stricken. 
Aldwyth.  Down  with  Tostigl 


HAKOLD. 


54^ 


Tliat   first   of    all.  —  And   when   doth 

Harold  go '! 
Morcar.    To-inonow  —  first   to    Bos- 
ham,  then  to  Flanders. 
Aldivyth.    Not  to  come  back  till  Tos- 

tig  shall  have  shown 
And  redden'd  with  his  people's  blood 

the  teeth 
That  shall  be  broken  by  us  —  yea,  and 

thou 
Chair'd  in  his  plaee.     Good-night,  and 

dream  thyself 
Their  chosen  Eail.        [Exit  Ai.dwyth. 
Morcar.  Earl  first,  and  alter  that 

Who  knows  I   may  not  dream  myself 

their  King  ! 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. —SEASHORE.   PONTHIEU. 
NIGHT. 

Harold  and  his  men,  vrrecked. 

Harold.    Friends,  in  that  last  inhos- 
pitable plun£;e 

Our  boat  hath  burst  her  ribs  ;  but  ours 
are  whole  ; 

I  have  but  bark'd  my  hands. 

Attendant.  i  dug  mine  into 

lily  old  fast  friend  the  shore,  and  cling- 
ing thus 

Felt  the  remorseless  outdraught  of  the 
deep 

Haul  like  a  great  strong  fellow  at  my 
legs. 

And  then  I  rose  and  ran.     The  blast 
that  came 

So  suddenly  hath  fallen  as  suddenly  — 

Put  thou  the  comet  and  this  blast  to- 
gether— 
Harold.    Put  thou  thyself  and  mother- 
wit  together. 

Be  not  a  fool ! 

Enter  Fishermen  with  torches.  Harold 
going  up  to  one  of  them,  Rolf. 

Wicked  sea-will-o'-the-wisp  ! 
Wolf  of  the  shore  !  dog,  with  thy  lying 

lights 
Thou  hast  betray'd  us  on  these  rocks 
of  thine ! 
Rolf.  Ay,  but  thou  liest  as  loud  as 
the  black  herring-pond  behind  thee. 
We  be  fishermen  :  I  came  to  see  after 
my  nets. 


Harold.    To  drag  us  into  them.    Fish- 
ermen ?  devils  ! 
Who,  while  ye  fish  for  men  with  your 

false  fires, 
Let  the  great  Devil  fish  for  your  own 
souls. 

Rolf.  Nay  then,  we  be  liker  the 
blessed  Apostles  ;  tliey  were  fishers  of 
men,   Father  Jean  says. 

Harold.    I  had  liefer  that  the  fish  had 
swallowed  me, 
Like  Jonah,    than   have  known  there 

were  such  devils. 
What 's  to  be  done  ? 

{To  his  men  —  goes  apai-t  with  then. 

Fisherrian.    Rolf,  what  iFsh  did  swal- 
low Jonah  ? 

Rolf.    A  whale ! 

Fisherman.  Then  a  whale  to  a  whelk 
we  have  swallowed  the  King  of  Eng- 
land. I  .saw  him  over  there.  Look 
thee,  Rolf,  when  I  was  down  in  the 
fever,  she  was  down  with  the  hunger, 
and  thou  didst  stand  by  her  and  give 
her  thy  crabs,  and  .set  her  up  again,  till 
now,  by  the  patient  Saints,  she 's  as 
crabb'd  as  ever. 

Rolf.  And  I  '11  give  her  my  crabs 
again,  when  thou  art  down  again. 

Fisherman.  I  thank  thee,  Rolf.  Run 
thou  to  Count  Guy  ;  he  is  hard  at  hand. 
Tell  him  what  hath  crejit  into  our  creel, 
and  he  will  fee  thee  as  freely  as  he  will 
wrench  this  ontlander's  ransom  out  of 
him  —  and  why  not  ?  for  what  right 
had  he  to  get  himself  wrecked  on  an- 
other man's  land? 

Rolf.  Thou  art  the  human-heartedest, 
C'hristian-charitiest  of  all  crab-catchers! 
Share  and  share  alike!  [Exit. 

Harold  {/o  FiauEWMA^).   Fellow,  dost 
thou  catch  crabs? 

Fisherman.  As  few  as  I  may  in  a 
wind,  and  less  than  I  would  in  a  calm. 
Ay! 

Harold.  I  have  a  mind  that  thou 
shalt  catch  no  more. 

Fisherman.    How  ? 

Harold.  I  have  a  mind  to  brain  thee 
with  mine  axe. 

Fisherman.  Ay,  do,  do,  and  our  gi-eat 
Count -crab  will  make  his  nippers  meet 
in  thine  heart ;  he  '11  sweat  it  out  of 
thee,  he  '11  sweat  it  out  of  thee.  Look, 
he's  here!  He'll  speak  for  him.self! 
Hold  thine  own,  if  thou  canst ! 
Enter  GuT,  Count  of  Ponthieu. 


544 


HAROLD. 


Harold.    Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu ! 
Guy.  Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex  ! 

Harold.    Thy  villains  with  their  lying 

lights  have  wreck'd  us  ! 
Guy.    Art  thou  not  Earl  of  Wessex? 
Harold.  In  mine  earldom 

A  man  may  hang  gold  bracelets  on   a 

bush, 
And  leave  them  for  a  year,  and  coming 

back 
Find  them  again. 

Guy.  Thou  art  a  mighty  man 

In  thine  own  earldom  ! 

Harold.      Were  such  murderous  liars 
In   Wessex  —  if   I    caught   them,   they 

should  hang 
Cliff-gibbeted   for  sea-marks  ;  our  sea- 
mew 
Winging  their  only  wail  ! 

Gay.  Ay,  but  my  men 

Hold  that  the  shipwreckt  are  accursed 

of  God  ;  — 
What  hinders  me  to  hold  with  mine 
own  men  ? 
Harold.    Tlie    Christian  manhood  of 

the  man  who  reigns! 
Guy.    Av,  rave  thy  worst,  but  in  our 
oubliettes 
Thou  shalt  or  rot  or  ransom.     Hale  him 
hence  ! 

\_To  one  of  his  Attendants. 
Flv  thou  to  William  ;  tell  him  we  have 
Harold. 

SCENE   II.  — BAYEUX.     PALACE. 

Count  William  and  William  Malet, 

William.    We  hold  our  Saxon  wood- 
cock in  the  springe, 
But  he  begins  to  flutter.     As  I  think 
He  was'  thine  host  in  England  when  I 

went 
To  visit  Edward. 

Mulct.  Yea,  and  there,  my  lord, 

To  make  allowance   for   their   rougher 

fashions, 
1  found  him  all  a  noble  host  should  be. 
William.    Thou  art  his  friend  :  tliou 

knowst  my  claim  on  England 
Thro'  Edward's  promise  :  we  have  him 

in  the  toils. 
And  it  were  well,  if  thou  shouldst  let 

him  feel. 
How  dense  a  fold  of  danger  nets  him 

round, 
So  that  he  bristle  himself  against  my 

will. 


Malet.    AVhat  would  I  do,  my  lord,  if 

I  were  you  ? 
William.    What  wouldst  thou  do  ? 
Malet.  My  lord,  he  is  thy  guest. 

William.    Nay,   by  the  splendor   of 

God,  no  guest  of  mine. 
He  came  not  to  .see  me,  had  passed  me  by 
To  hunt  and  hawk  elsewhere,  save  for 

the  fate 
Which  liunted  him  when  that  un-Saxon 

blast. 
And  bolts  of  thunder  moulded  in  high 

heaven 
To  serve  the  Norman  purpose,  drave  and 

crack'd 
His  boat  on  Ponthieu  beach  ;  where  our 

friend  Guy 
Had  wrung  his  ransom  from  him  by  the 

i-ack, 
But  that  I  stept  between  and  purchased 

him. 
Translating  his  captivity  from  Guy 
To  mine  own  hearth  at  Bayeux,  where 

he  sits 
My  ransom'd  prisoner. 

'Maid.  Well,  if  not  with  gold. 

With  golden  deeds  and  iron  strokes  that 

brougiit 
Thy  war  with   Brittany  to  a  goodlier 

close 
Than  else  had  been,  he  paid  his  ransom 

back. 
WiUiam .    So  that  henceforth  they  are 

not  like  to  league 
With  Harold  against  me. 

Malet.  A  marvel,  how 

He  from  the  liquid  .sands  of  Coesnon 
Haled  thy  .shore-swallovv'd,  armor'd  Nor- 
mans up 
To  fight  for  thae  again  ! 

William,.  Perchance  against 

Their  saver,  save  thou  save  him  from 

himself. 
Malet.    But  I  should  let  liim  home 

again,  my  lord. 
William.    Simple !   let   fly  the   bird 

within  the  hand. 
To  catch  the  bird  again  within  the  bush  ! 
No. 
Smooth  thou  my  way,  before  he  clash 

with  me ; 
I  want  his  voice  in   England   for  the 

crown, 
I  want  thy  voice  with  him  to  bring  him 

round  ; 
And   being  brave   he   must   be  subtly 

cow'd. 


HAROLD. 


545 


And  being  truthful  wrought  upon  to 

swear 
Vows  that  he  dare  ncit  break.     EDglaud 

our  own 
Thro'  Harold's  help,  he  shall  be  my  dear 

friend 
Aa  well  as  thine,  and  thou  thyself  shalt 

have 
Large  lordship  there  of  lands  and  terri- 
tory. 
Malet.    I  knew  thy  purpose  ;  he  and 

Wulfnoth  never 
Have  met,  except  in  public  ;  shall  they 

meet 
In  private  ?     I   have  often  talk'd  with 

Wulfnoth, 
And  stuif'd  the  boy  with  fears  that  these 

may  act 
On  Harold  when  they  meet. 

William.  Then  let  them  meet ! 

Malet.    I  can  but  love  this  noble,  hon- 
est Harold. 
William.    Love  him  !  why  not  ?  thine 

is  a  loving  office, 
I  have  commission'd  thee  to  save  the 

man  : 
Help  the  good  ship,  showing  the  sunken 

rock, 
Or  he  is  wreckt  forever. 

Enter  William  Rufus. 

William  Bufics.  Father. 

William.  Well,  boy. 

William  Rufus.    They    have    taken 
away  the  toy  thou  gavest  ine. 
The  Norman  knight. 

William.  Why,  boy  ? 

JVillium  Rufus.  Because  I  broke 

The  horse's  leg — it  was  mine  o^vn  to 

break  ; 
I  like  to  have  my  toys,  and  breal;  them 
too. 

William.    Well,  thou  shalt  have  an- 
other Norman  knight ! 

William  Rufus.    And   may   I    break 
his  legs  ? 

William.  Yea,  — get  thee  gone  ! 

William  Rufus.    1  '11  tell  them  I  have 
had  my  way  with  thee.        [Exit. 

Maid.    I  never  knew  thee  check  thy 
will  for  aught 
Save    for    the    prattling  of    thy   little 
ones. 

William.   Who  shall  be  kings  of  Eng- 
land.    I  am  heir 
Of    England    by    the    promise    of    her 
king. 


Malet.    But  there  the  great  Assembly 
choose  their  king. 
The  choice  of  England  is  the  voice  of 
England. 
William.    I  will  be  king  of  England 
by  the  laws, 
The  choice,  and  voice  of  England. 
Malet.  Can  that  be  '. 

William.    The  voice  of  any  people  is 
the  sword 
That  guards  them,  or  the  sword  that 

beats  them  down. 
Here  comes  the  would-be  what  I  will 

be  .  .  .  kinglike  .  .  . 
Tho'  scarce  at  ease  ;  for,  save  -iur  meshes 

break. 
More  kinglike  he  tlian  like  to  prove  a 
king. 

Enter  Harold,  musing,  loith  his  eyes  on 
the  ground. 

He  sees  me  not  —  and  yet  he  dreams  of 

me. 
Earl,  wilt  thou  fly  my  falcons  this  fair 

day  ? 
They    are   of    the    best,    strong-wing'd 

against  the  wind. 
Harold  (looking  up  suddenly,  haviiig 

caught  but  (he  last  ivord).    Which 

way  does  it  blow  ? 
William.     Blowing  for  England,  ha  ? 
Not   yet.      Thou   hast   not   learnt   thy 

quarters  here. 
The  winds  .so  cross  and  jostle  among 

these  towers. 
Harold.    Count  of  the  NoiTOans,   thou 

hast  ransom'd  us, 
Maintain'd,  and  entertain'd  us  royally  ! 
William.   And  thou  for  us  hast  fought 

as  loyally, 
Which  binds  us  friendship-fast  forever  ! 
Harold.  Good ! 

But  lest  we  turn  the  scale  of  courtesy 
By  too  much  pressure  on  it,  I  would  fain, 
Since    thou    hast    promised    Wulfnoth 

home  with  us, 
Be  home  again  with  Wulfnoth. 

William.  Stay  —  as  yet 

Thou  hast  but  seen  how  Norman  hands 

can  strike, 
But  walked  our   Norman   field,   scarce 

touch'd  or  tasted 
The  splendors  of  our  Court. 

Harold.  I  am  in  no  mood  : 

I  should  be  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Crossing  your  light. 

William.      Nay,  rest  a  week  or  two, 


546 


HAROLD. 


And  we  will  fill  thee  full  of  Norman 
sun, 

And  send  thee  back  among  thine  island 
mists 

With  laugliter. 

Harold.   Count,  I  thank  thee,  but  had 
rather 

Breathe  the  free  wind  from  off  our  Saxon 
downs, 

Tho'  charged  with  all  the  wet  of  all  the 
west. 
William.    Why  if  thou  wilt,   so  let 
it  be  —  thou  shalt. 

That  were  a  graceless  hospitality 

To  chain  the  free  guest  to  the  banquet- 
board  ; 

To-morrow  we  will  ride  with  thee  to 
Harfleur, 

And  see  thee  shipt,  and  pray  in  thy  be- 
half 

For  liappier  homeward  winds  than  that 
which  crack'd 

Thy  bavk  at  Ponthieu,  —  yet  to  us,  in 
faith, 

A  happy  one  —  whereby   we   came   to 
know 

Vliy  valor  and  thy  value,  noble  earl. 

iVy,   and    perchance   a    happy   one    for 
thee, 

Provided  —  I  will  go  with  thee  to-mor- 
row— 

Nay  —  but   there   be    conditions,    easy 
ones, 

So   thou,   fair   friend,    will   take   them 
easily. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.    My  Lord,  there  is  a  post  from 

over  seas 
With  news  for  thee.  [Exit  Page. 

William.    Come,  Malet,  let  us  hear  ! 
[Exeunt  Count  William  and  Malet. 
Harold.    Conditions  ?     AVhat    condi- 
tions ?     Pay  him  back 
His  ransom?  "easy"  —  that  were  easy 

—  nay  — 
No   money-lover  he  !     AVhat   said   the 

King  ? 
"I  pray  you  do  not  go  to  Normandy." 
And  fate  hath  blown  me  hither,  bound 

me  too 
With  bitter  obligation  to  the  Count  — 
Have  I  not  fought  it  out  ?     What  did 

he  mean  ? 
There  lodged  a  gleaming  grimness  in  his 

eyes. 
Gave  his  shorn  smile  the  lie.     The  walls 

oppress  me. 


And  yon  huge  keep  that  hinders  half  the 

heaven. 
Free  air  !  free  field  ! 

[Moves  to  go  out.     A  Man-at-arms 

ollows  him. 

Harold  {to  the  Man-at-arms).    I  need 

thee  not.     Why  dost  thou  follow 

me  ? 

Man-at-arms.    I    have    the    Count's 

commands  to  follow  thee. 
Harold.    What  then  ?     Am  I  in  dan- 
ger in  this  court  ? 
Man-at-arms.    I  cannot  tell.     I  have 

the  Count's  commands. 
Harold.    Stand  out  of  earshot  then, 
and  keep  me  still 
In  eyeshot. 
Man-at-arms.    Yea,  Lord  Harold. 

[  Withdraws. 

Harold.  And  arm'd  men 

Ever  keep  watch  beside   my  chamber 

door, 
And  if  I  walk  within  the  lonely  wood, 
There  is  an  arm'd  man  ever  glides  be- 
hind ! 

Enter  Malet. 

Why  am  I  followed,  haunted,  harass'd, 

watch'd  ? 
See  yonder  ! 

[Pointing  to  the  Man-at-arms. 
Malet.    'T  is  the  good  Count's  care  for 
thee ! 
The  Normans  love  thee  not,  nor  thou 

the  Normans, 
Or —  so  they  deem. 

Harold.  But  wherefore  is  the  wind, 
Which  way  soever  tlie  vane-arrow  swing, 
Not  ever  fair  for  England  ?     Why  but 

now 
He  said  (thou  heardst  him)  that  I  must 

not  hence 
Save  on  conditions. 
Malet.  So  in  truth  he  said. 

Harold.    Malet,   thy  mother  was  an 
Englishwoman  ; 
There  somewhere  beats  an  English  pulse 
in  thee  ! 
Malet.    AVell  —  for  mj'  mother's  sake 
I  love  your  England, 
But  for  my  father  I  love  Normandy. 
Harold.    Speak  for  thy  mother's  sake, 

and  tell  me  true. 
Malet.    Then  for  my  mother's  sake^ 
and  England's  sake 
That  suffers  in  the  daily  want  of  thee. 
Obey  the  Count's  conditions,  my  good 
friend. 


HAROLD. 


547 


Harold.    How,  Malet,  if  they  be  not 

honorable  ! 
Malet.    Seem  to  obey  them. 
Harold.  Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Malet.    Choose  therefore  whether  thou 
wilt  have  thy  conscience 
White  as  a  maiden's  hand,  or  whether 

England 
Be  shatter'd  into  fragments. 

Harold.  News  from  England  ? 

Malet.    Morcarand  Edwin  have  stirr'd 

up  the  Thanes 

Against  thy  brother  Tostig's  governance  ; 

And  all  the  North  of  Humber  is  one 

stoim. 

Harold.    I  should  be  there,  Malet,  1 

should  be  there  ! 
Malet.    And  Tostig  in  his  own  hall  on 
suspicion 
Hath  massacred  the  Thane  that  was  his 

guest, 
Gamel,  the  son  of  Orm  :  and  there  be 

more 
As  villanously  slain. 

Harold.  The  wolf  !  the  beast  ! 

ni  news  for  guests,  ha,  Malet !     More  T 

What  more  ? 
What  do  they  say  ?  did  Edward  know 
of  this  ? 
Malet.  They  say,  his  wife  was  knowing 

and  abetting. 
Harold.    They   say,    his   wife  !  —  To 
marry  and  have  no  husband 
Makes  the  wife  fool.     My  God,  I  should 

be  tliere. 
I  '11  hack  my  way  to  the  sea. 

Malet.  Thou  canst  not,  Harold  ; 

Our  Duke  is  all  between  thee  and  the 

sea. 
Our  Duke  is  all  about  thee  like  a  God  ; 
All  passes  block'd.     Obey  him,  speak 

him  fair. 
For  he  is  only  debonair  to  those 
That  follow  where  he  leads,  but  stark 

as  death 
To  those  that  cross  him.  —  Look  thou, 

here  is  Wulfnoth ! 
I  leave  thee  to  thy  talk  with  him  alone  ; 
How  wan,  poor  lad!  how  sick  and  satl 
for  home  !  [Exit  Malet. 

Harold  {muttering).    Go  not  to  Nor- 
mandy —  go  not  to  Normandy ! 

?1nter  Wulfnot  . 

Poor  brother !  still  a  hostage !  I 

Wulfnoth.  Yen,  and  I 

Shall  see  the  dewy  kiss  of  dawn  no  more  i 


Make  blush  the  maiden-white  of  our 

tall  cliffs, 
Nor  mark   the   sea-bird  rouse  himself 

and  hover 
Above  the  windy  ripple,  and  fill  the  sky 
With  fiee  sea-laughter  —  never  —  save 

indeed 
Thou  canst  make  yield  this  iron-mooded 

Duke 
To  let  me  go. 

Harold.       Wh)-,  brother,  so  he  will ; 
But  on   conditions.     Canst  thou  guess 
at  them  ? 
Wul/tiol h .    Draw  nearer,  —  I  was  in 
the  corridoi', 
I  saw  him  coming  with  his  brother  Odo 
The  Bayeux  hii^hop,  and  1  hid  myself. 
Harold.    They  did  thee  wiong  who 
made  thee  hostage ;  thou 
Wast  ever  feaiful. 

Wulfnoth.    And  he  spoke  —  I  heard 
him  — 
"This  Haiold  is  not  of  the  royal  blood. 
Can  Jiave  no  right  to  tlie  crown,"  and 

Odo  said, 
"  Thine  is  the  right,  for  thine  the  might ; 

he  is  here. 
And  yonder  is  th)'  keep." 

Harold.  No,  Wulfnoth,  no. 

JVulfnoth.    And  William  langh'd  and 
swore  that  might  was  right. 
Far  as  he  knew  in  this  poor  world  of 

ours  — 
"  Marry,  the  Saints  must  go  along  with 

us, 
And,  brother,  we  will  find  a  way,"  said 

he  — 
Yea,  yea,  he  would  be  king  of  England. 
Harold.  Never ! 

Wulfnoth.    Yea,  but  thou  must  not 

this  way  answer  him. 
Harold.    Is  it  not  better  still  to  speak 

the  truth  ? 
Wnlfiiotli.    Not   here,    or   thou  wilt 
never  hence  nor  I : 
For  in  the  racing  toward  this  golden 

goal 
He  turns  not  right  or  left,  but  tramples 

flat 
Whatever  thwarts  him  ;  hast  thou  never 

heard 
His  savagery  at  Alen9on,  — the  town 
Hung  out  raw  hides  along  their  walls, 

and  cried 
"Work  for  the  tanner." 

Harold.  That  had  anger'd  we, 

Hnd  1  been  William. 


548 


HAROLD. 


Wulfnoth.    Nay,    but  he   had    pris- 
oners, 
He  tore  their  eyes  out,  sliced  their  hands 

away, 
And  flung  them  streaming  o'er  the  bat- 
tlements 
Upon  the  heads  of  those  who  walk'd 

within  — 
O  speak  him  fair,  Harold,  for  thine  own 
sake. 
Harold.    Your  Welshman  says,  "The 
Truth  against  the  World," 
Much  more  the  truth  against  myself. 

Wulfnoth.  Thyself  ? 

But  for  my  sake,  oh  brother !  oh  !  for 
my  sake ! 
Harold.    Poor  Wulfnoth  !  do  they  not 

entreat  thee  well  ? 
Widfmth.    I  see  the  blackness  of  my 
dungeon  loom 
Across  their  lamps  of  revel,  and  beyond 
The  merriest  murmurs  of  their  banquet 

clank 
The  shackles  that  will  bind  me  to  the 
wall. 
Harold.    Too  fearful  still. 
Wulfnoth.    Oh  no,   no  —  speak  him 
■fair  ! 
Call  it  to  temporize  ;  and  not  to  lie ; 
Harold,  I  do  not  counsel  thee  to  lie. 
Tlie  man  that  hath  to  foil  a  murderous 

aim 
May,  surely,  play  with  words. 

Harold.  Words  are  the  man. 

Not  ev'n  for  thy  sake,  brother,  would 
Hie. 
Wulfnoth.    Then  for  thine  Edith  ? 
Harold.    There  thou  prickst  me  deep. 
Wulfnoth.    And  for  our  Mother  Eng- 
land ? 
Harold.         Deeper  still. 
Wulfnoth.    And  deeper  still  the  deep- 
down  oubliette, 
Down    thirty   feet    below   the    smiling 

day  — 
In  blackness  —  dogs'  food  thrown  upon 

thy  head. 
Ami  over  thee  the  suns  arise  and  set, 
And  the  lark  sings,  the  sweet  stars  come 

and  go. 
And  men  are  at  their  markets,  in  their 

fields. 
And  woo  their  loves  and  have  forgotten 

thee  ; 
And  thou  art  upright  in  thy  living  grave, 
Where  there  is  barely  room  to  shift  thy 
side, 


And  all  thine  England  hath  forgotten 

thee  ; 
And  lie  our  lazy-pious  Norman  King, 
With  all  his  Normans  round  him  once 

again, 
Counts  his  old  beads,  and  hath  forgotten 
thee. 
Harold.    Thou  art  of  my  blood,  and 
so  methinks,  my  boy. 
Thy  fears  infect    me    beyond    reasor. 
Peace ! 
Wulfnoth.    And  then  our  fiery  Tot 
tig,  while  thy  hands 
Are  palsied  here,  if  his  Northumbrians 

rise 
And   hurl   him   from   them,  —  I    have 

heard  the  Normans 
Count   upon   this  confusion  —  maj'  he 

not  make 
A  league  with  William,  so  to  bring  him 
back? 
Harold.    That  lies  within  the  shadow 

of  the  chance. 
Wulfnoth.    And  like  a  river  in  flood 
thro'  a  burst  dam 
Descends  the   ruthless   Norman  —  our 

good  King 
Kneels  mumbling  some  old  bone  —  our 

helpless  folk 
.\re  wash'd  away,  wailing,  in  their  own 
blood  — 
Harold.    Wailing!  not  warring?  Boy, 
thou  hast  forgotten 
That  thou  art  English. 

Wulfnoth.   Then  oar  modest  women — 
1  know  the  Norman  license  —  thine  own 
Edith  — 
Harold.    No  more  !     I  will  not  heai 

thee  —  William  comes. 
Wulfnoth.    I  dare  not  well  be  seen 
in  talk  with  thee. 
Make  thou  not  mention  that  I   spake 
with  thee. 
[Moves  awa/y  to  the  back  of  the  stage- 
Enter  William,  Malet,  and  Officer. 

Officer.    We  have  the  man  that  rail'c 

against  thy  birth. 
William.    Tear  out  his  tongue. 
Officer.  He  shall  not  rail  again  ; 

He  said  that  he  should  see  confusion 

fall 
On  thee  and  on  thine  house. 

William.  Tear  out  his  eyes, 

And  plunge  him  into  prison. 

Officer.  It  shall  be  done 

[Exit  Officer. 


HAROLD. 


549 


William.    Look  not  amazed,  fair  earl! 
Better  leave  undone 
Than   do   by   halves  —  tongueless   and 
e3'eless,  prison'd  — • 
Harold.    Better  niethinks  have  slain 

the  man  at  once  ! 
William.    We  have  respect  for  man's 
immortal  soul, 
We  seldom  take  man's  life,  except  in 

war ; 
It  frights  the  traitor  more  to  maim  and 
blind. 
Harold.    In  mine  own  land  I  should 
have  scorn'd  the  man, 
Or  lash'd  his  rascal  back,  and  let  him  go. 
William.    And  let  him  go  ?    To  slan- 
der thee  again  ! 
Yet  in  thine  own  land  in  thy  father's 

day 
They  blinded  my  young  kinsman,  Alfred 

—  ay, 
Some  said  it  was  thy  father's  deed. 
Harold.  They  lied. 

William.    But  thou  and  he  —  vvliom 
at  thy  word,  for  thou 
Art  known  a  .speaker  of  the  truth,  I  free 
From  this  foul  charge  — 

Harold.      Nay,  nay,  he  freed  himself 
By  oath  and   compurgation   from    the 

charge. 
The  king,  the  lords,  the  people  clear'd 
him  of  it. 
William.    But  thou  and  he  drove  our 
good  Normans  out 
From  England,  and  this  rankles  in  us 

yet. 
Archbishop  Robert  hardly  scaped  with 
life. 
Harold.   Archbishop  Robert  !    Robert 
the  Archbishop ! 
Robert  of  Jumieges,  he  that  — 

Malet.  Quiet !  quiet ! 

Harold.    Count !  if  there  sat  within 

thy  Norman  chair 

A  ruler  all  for  England  —  one  who  fill'd 

All  offices,  all  bishoprics  with  English  — 

We  could  not  move  from  Dover  to  the 

Hum  her 
Saving  thro'  Norman  bishoprics  —  I  say 
Ye  would  applaud  that   Norman  who 

should  drive 
The  .stranger  to  the  fiends  ! 

William..  Why,  that  is  reason  ! 

Warrior    thou    art,    and    mighty  wise 

withal  ! 
Ay,  ay,  but  many  among  our  Noiman 
lords 


Hate  thee  for  this,  and  press  upon  me 

—  saying 
God  and  the  sea  have  given  thee  to  our 

hands  — 
To   plunge   thee   into   life-long    prison 

here  :  — 
Yet    I    hold    out    against    them,    as   I 

may. 
Yea  —  would  hold  out,  yea,  tlio'  they 

shouhl  revult  — 
For  thou  hast  done   (lie  l)attle  in  my 

cause ; 
I  am  thy  fastest  friend  in  Normandy. 
Harold.    I  am  doubly  bound  to  thee 

...  if  this  be  so. 
William.    And    I    would   bind   tliee 
more,  and  would  myself 
Be  bounden  to  thee  more. 

Harold.  Tlien  let  me  hence 

With  Wulfnoth  to  King  Edward. 

iniliam.  So  we  wilL 

We  liear  he  hath  not  long  to  live. 
Harold.  It  may  be. 

William.    Wli y  then  the  lieii'  of  Eng- 
land, wlio  is  lie  ? 
Harold.    The  Atheling  is  nearest  to 

the  throne. 
Williavi.    But   sickly,    slight,    half- 
witted and  a  child, 
Will  England  have  liim  king? 
Harold.  It  may  be,  no. 

William.    And   hath    King    Edward 

not  pronounced  his  heir? 
Harold.    Not  that  I  know. 
William.    When  he  was  here  in  Nor- 
mandy, 
He  loved  us  and  we  him,  because  we 

found  him 
A  Norman  of  the  Normans. 

Harold.  So  did  we. 

William.    A  gentle,   gracious,    pure 
and  saintly  man  ! 
And  grateful  to  the  hand  that  shielded 

him, 
He  promised  that  if  ever  he  were  king 
In  England,  he  would  give  his  kingly 

voice 
To  me  as  Jiis  successor.     Knowest  thou 
this  2 
Harold.    I  learn  it  now. 
William.    Thou    knowest  I  am    his 
cousin, 
And  that  my  wife  descends  from  Alfred  ? 
Harold.  Ay. 

William.    Who  hath  a  better  claim 
then  to  the  crown 
So  that  ye  will  not  crown  the  Atheling? 


350 


HAJIOLD. 


Harold.    None  that  I  know  ...  if  that 

but  hung  upon 
King  Edward's  will. 

William,  y^iltthou  uphold  my  claim  ? 
Malet  {aside  to  Harold).    Be   careful 

of  thine  answer,  my  good  friend. 
Wulfnoth  {aside   to   Hakold).    Oh  ! 

Harold,  for  my  sake  and  for  thine 

own  ! 
Harold.    Ay  ...  if  the  king  have  not 

revoked  his  promise. 
William.    But  hath  he  done  it  then  ? 
Harold.  Not  that  1  know. 

William.    Good,  good,  and  thou  wilt 

help  me  to  the  crown. 
Harold.   Ay  .  .  .  if  the  Witan  will  con- 
sent to  this. 
William.    Thou    art    the    mightiest 

voice  in  England,  man, 
Thy  voice  will  lead  the  Witan  —  shall 

I  have  it  ? 
Wulfnoth  {aside  to  Harold).    Oh  ! 

Harold,  if  thou  love  thine  Edith, 

ay.  * 
Harold.   Ay,  if  — 
Malet  {aside  to  Harold).  Thine  "  ifs  " 

will  sear  thine  eyes  out  —  ay. 
Willinm.    I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou  help 

me  to  the  crown  ? 
And  I  will  make  thee  my  great  Earl  of 

Earls, 
Foremost  in  England  nnd  in  Normandy ; 
Thou  shalt  be  verily  king — all  but  the 

name  — 
For  I  shall  most  sojourn  in  Normandy  ; 
And  thou  be  my  vice-king  in  England. 

Speak. 
Wulfnoth  {aside   to   Harold).    Ay, 

brother  —  for  the  sake  of  England 

—  ay. 
Harold.    My  lord  — 
Malet  {aside  to  Harold).    Take  heed 

now. 
Harold.    Ay. 

William.  I  am  content, 

jjor  thou  art  truthful,  and  thy  word  thy 

bond. 
To-morrow  we  will  ride  with  thee  to 

Harfleur.  [Exit  William. 

Malet.    Harold,  I  am  thy  friend,  one 

life  with  thee, 
And  even  as  I  .should  bless  thee  saving 

mine, 
I  thank  thee  now  for  having  saved  thy- 
self. [Exit  Malet. 
Harold.    For  having  lost  myself  to 

SRve  myself, 


Said  "ay"  when  I  meant  "no,"  lied 
like  a  lad 

That  dreads  the  pendent  scourge,  said 
"ay"  for  "no  !  " 

Ay  !  No  !  —  he  hath  not  bound  me  by 
an  oath  — 

Is  "ay"  an  oath?  is  "ay"  strong  as 
an  oath  ? 

Or  is  it  the   same   sin   to  break   my 
word 

As  break  mine   oath  ?     He   call'd  rcij 
word  my  bond  ! 

He  is  a  liar  who  knows  I  am  a  liar, 

And  makes  believe  that  he  believes  my 
word  — 

The  crime  be  on  his  head  —  not  bounder 
—  no. 
[Suddenly  doors  are  Jlinig  open,  dis- 
covering in  an  inner  hall  CoUNT 
William  in  his  state  robes,  seated 
2(pon  /lis  throne,  between  two  bish- 
ops, Odo  of  Bayeux  bein(/  one :  in 
the  centre  of  the  hall  an  ark  covered 
with  cloth  of  gold;  and  on  either 
side  of  it  the  Norman  barons. 

Enter  a  Jailer  before  William's  throne. 
William  {to  Jailer).     Knave,    hast 

thou  let  thy  prisoner  scape  ? 
Jailer.  Sir  Count, 

He  had  but  one  foot,  he  must  have  hopt 

away  ; 
Yea,    some   familiar   spirit   must   have 
help'd  him. 
William.  Woe,  knave,  to  thy  familiar 
and  to  thee  ! 
Give  me  the  keys.     [They  fall  clashing. 
Nay,   let  them  lie.     Stand   there   and 
wait  my  will. 

[The  Jailer  stands  aside. 
William{to  Hai;old).   Hastthousuch 

trustless  jailers  in  thy  North  ? 
Harold.    We   have  few  prisoners   in 
mine  earldom  there, 
So  less  chance  for  false  keepers. 

William.  We  have  heard 

Of  thy  just,  mild,  and^qual  governance; 
Honor  to  thee  !  thou  art  perfect  in  all 

honor ! 
Thy  naked  word  thy  bond  !  confirm  it 

now 
Before  our  gather'd  Norman  baronage, 
For  they  will  not  believe  thee  —  as  I 
believe. 
[Descends  from  his  throne  and  standi 
by  the  ark. 
Let  a^l  men  here  bear  witness  of  out 
bond  1 


HAROLD. 


551 


[Becko7is  to  Harold,  who  advances. 
Enter  Malet  behind  him. 
Lay  thou  thy  haud  upon  this  golden 

pall  ! 
Behold  the  jewel  of  St.  Pancratius 
Woven  into  the  gold.     Swear  thou  on 
this  ! 
Harold.    ^Vhat  should  I  swear  ?   Why 

.should  I  swear  on  this  ? 
William  {savayehj).    Swear   thou   to 
helj)  me  to  the  crown  of  England. 
Malet     {whispering     Harold).      My 
friend,  thou  hast  gone  too  far  to 
palter  now. 
fVulfnotk      {whispering      Harold). 
Swear  thou  to-day,  to-morrow  is 
thine  own. 
Harold.    I  swear  to  help  thee  to  the 
crown  of  England  .  .  . 
According  as  King  Edward  promis(;s. 
William.    Thou  must  swear  absolute- 

1}',  noble  Earl. 
Malet  {whispering).    Delay  is  death  to 

thee,  ruin  to  England. 
Wulfiwth  {whispering).    Swear,  dear- 
e.st  brother,  I  beseech  thee,  swear ! 
Harold  {putting  his  hand  on  thejewel). 
I  swear  to  help  thee  to  the  crown 
of  England. 
William.    Thanks,  truthful  Earl  ;   I 
did  not  doubt  thy  word, 
But  that  my  barons  might  believe  thy 

word, 
And  that  the  Holy  Saints  of  Normandy 
When  thou  art  home  in  England,  with 

thine  own. 
Might  strengthen  thee  in  keeping  of  thy 

word, 
I  made  thee  swear.  —  Show  him  by  whom 
he  hath  sworn. 
[The  two  Bishops  advance,  and  raise 
the  cloth  of  gold.     The  bodies  and 
bones  of  Saints  are  seen  lying  in 
the  ark. 
Tlie  holy  bones  of  all  the  Canonized 
From  all  the  holiest  shrines  in   Nor- 
mandy ! 
Harold.    Horrible ! 

[Thcg  let  the  cloth  fall  again. 
William.    Ay,   for  thou  hast  sworn 
an  oath 
Which,   if  not  kept,   would  make  the 

hard  eartli  rive 
To  the  very  Devil's  horns,  the  bright  sky 

cleave 
To  the  very  feet  of  God,  and  send  her  I 
hosts  I 


Of  injured  Saints  to  scatter  sparks  of 

plague 
Thro'  all  your  cities,  blast  your  iufauts, 

dash 
The  torch  of  war  among  your  standing 

corn. 
Dabble    your   hearths   with   your  own 

blood.  — •  Enough  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  break  it !     I,  the  Count 

—  the  King  — 

Thy  friend — am  grateful  for  thine  honest 

oath. 
Not  coming  fiercely  like  a  conqueror, 

now. 
But  softly  as  a  bridegroom  to  his  own. 
For  I  shall  rule  according  to  your  laws, 
And  make  your  ever-jarring  Earldoms 

move 
To  music  and  in  order  —  Angle,  Jute, 
Dane,  Sa.xon,  Norman,  help  to  build  a 

throne 
Out-towering   hers   of   France.  .  .  .  The 

wind  is  fair 
For  Englaml  now.  .  .  .  To-night  we  will 

be  mei'iy. 
To-morrow  will  I  ride  with  thee  to  Har- 

fleur. 
[Exeunt  William  and  all  the  Norman 

barons,  etc. 
Harold.    To-night  we  will  be  merry 

—  and  to-morrow  — 

Juggler  and  bastard  —  bastard  —  he  hates 

tliat  most  — 
William  the  tanner's  bastard  !     Would 

he  heard  me  ! 

0  God,  tliat  I  were  in  some  wide,  waste 

field 
With  nothing  but  my  battle-axe  and 

him 
To  spatter  his  brains  !     Why  let  earth. 

rive,  gulf  in 
These  cursed  Normans  —  yea  and  inLue 

own  self. 
Cleave  heaven,  and  send  thy  saints  that 

1  may  say 
Ev'n  to  tlieir  faces,    "  If  ye  side  with 

William 
Ye  are  not  noble."     How  their  pointed 

fingers 
Glared  at  me  !     Am  I  Harold,  Harold, 

'        son 
Of  our  great  Godwin  ?     Lo  !    I  touch 

mine  arms. 
My  limbs  —  they  are  not  mine  —  they 

are  a  liar's  — 

1  mean  to  be  a  liar —  I  am  not  bound  — 
Stigand  shall  give  me  absolution  for  it  — 


552 


HAROLD. 


Did  the  chest  move  ?  did  it  move  ?     I 

ain  utter  craven  ! 
0  Wulfnoth,   Wulfnoth,  brother,  thou 

hast  iaetray'd  me  ! 
Wulfnoth.    Forgive    me,    brother,    I 

will  live  here  and  die. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.    My  lord!  the  Duke  awaits  thee 

at  the  banquet. 
Harold.    Where  they  eat  dead  men's 

flesh,  and  drink  their  blood. 
Page.    My  lord  — 
Harold.    1  know  your  Norman  cookery 

is  so  spiced, 
It  masks  all  this. 

Page.    My  lord  !    thou  art   white   as 

death. 
Harold.    With  locking  on  the  dead. 

Am  1  so  white  ? 
Thy  Duke  will  seem  the  darker.    Hence, 

1  follow.  \_Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE    I.— THE    KING'S    PALACE. 
LONDON. 

King  Edward  dying  on  a  couch,  and  by 
him  standing  the  Queen,  IIauold, 
Archbishop  Stigaxd,  Gcrth,  Lkof- 
wiN,  Archbishop  Aldred,  Aij3wyth, 
and  Edith. 

Stigand.    Sleeping  or  dying  there?    If 

this  be  death, 
Then  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown 

thee  King  — 
Come  hither,  I  have  a  power  ; 

[to  Harold. 
They  call  me  near,  for  I  am  close  to  thee 
And  England  —  1,   old  shrivell'd   Sti- 
gand,  1 , 
Dry  as  an  old  wood-fungus  on  a  dead 

tree, 
I  have  a  power  ! 

See  here  this  little  key  about  my  neck  ! 
There  lies  a  treasurti  buried  down  in  Ely  : 
If  e'er  the  Norman  grow  too  hard  for 

thee, 
Ask  me  for  this  at  thv  most  need,  son 

Harold, 
At  thy  most  need  —  not  sooner. 

Harold.  So  I  will. 

Stigand.  Red  gold — a  hundred  purses 

—  yea,  and  more  ! 
If  thou  canst  make  a  wholesome  use  of 

these 


To  chink  against  the  Norman,  I  do  be- 

lieve 
My  old  crook'd  spine  would  bud  out  two 

young  wings 
To  fly  to  heaven  straight  vnth. 

Harold.  Thank  thee,  father  ! 

Thou  art  English,  Edward  too  is  English 

now  : 
He  hath  clean  repented  of  his  Norman 

ism. 
Stigand.    Ay,  as  the  libertine  repents 

who  cannot 
Make  done  undone,  when  thro'  his  dying 

sense 
Shrills  "lost  thro'  thee."     They  have 

built  their  castles  here  ; 
Our  priories  are  Norman  ;  the  Norman 

adder 
Hath  bitten  us  ;  we  are  poison'd  :  our 

dear  England 
Is  demi-Norinan.     He  !  — 

[Pointing  to  KiNG  Edward  sleeping. 
Harold.  I  would  I  were 

As  holy  and  as  passionless  as  he  ! 
That  I  might  rest  as  calmly  !     Look  at 

him  — 
The  rosy  face,  and  long  down-silvering 

beard. 
The    brows   unwrinkled  as  a  summer 

mere.  — 
Stigand.    A  summer  mere  with  sud- 
den wreckful  gusts 
From  a  side-gorge.     Passionless  ?    How 

he  flamed 
When  Tostig's  anger'd  earldom   flung 

him,  nay. 
He  fain  had  calcined  all  Northumbria 
To  one  black  ash,  but  that  thy  patriot 

passion 
Siding  with  our  great  Council  against 

Tostig, 
Out-passion'd  his  !     Holy  ?  ay,  ay,  for- 
sooth, 
A  conscience  for  his  own  soul,  not  his 

realm ; 
A   twilight   conscience  lighted  thro'  a 

chink ; 
Thine   by  the  sun  ;  nay,  by  some  sun 

to  be, 
AVhen  all  the  world  hath  learnt  to  speak 

the  truth, 
And  lying  were  self-murder  by  that  state 
Which  was  the  exception. 

Harold.       That  sun  may  God  speed  > 
Stigand.    Come,    Harold,    shake    the 

cloud  off! 
Harold.  Can  I,  father  ? 


ELA.ROLD. 


553 


Our  Tostig  parted  cursing  me  and  Eng- 
land ; 
Our  sister  hates  us  for  his  banishment ; 
He  hath  gone  to  kindle  Norway  against 

England, 
And  Wulfnoth  is  alone  in  Normandy. 
For  when  I  rode  with  William  down  to 

Harfleur, 
'•Wulfnoth  is  sick,"  he  said  ;  "he  can- 
not follow  "  ; 
Then  with  that  friendly-hendly  smile 

of  his, 
''We  have  learnt  to  love  him,  let  him 

a  little  longer 
Remain  a  hostage  for  the  loyalty 
Of  Godwin's  house."     As  far  as  touches 

Wulfnoth, 
1  that  so  prized  plain  word  and  naked 

truth 
Have  sinn'd  against  it  —  all  in  vain. 

Leofwin.  CJood  brother. 

By  all  the  truths  that  ever  priest  hath 

preach'd, 
Of  all  the  lies  that  ever  men  have  lied. 
Thine  is  the  pardonablest. 

Harold.  May  be  so  ! 

I  think  it  so,  1  think  1  am  a  fool 
To  think  it  can  be  otherwise  than  so. 
Stiijand.    Tut,    tut,   I  have  absolved 

thee  :  dost  thou  scorn  me. 
Because  1  had  my  Canterbury  pallium 
From  one  whom  they  dispoped  ? 
Harold.  No,  Stigand,  no  ! 

Stigand.    Is  naked  truth  actable  in 

true  life? 
I  have  heard  a   saying  of  thy  father 

Godwin, 
That,  were  a  man  of  state  nakedly  true. 
Men  would  but  take  him  for  the  craftier 

liar. 
Leofwin.    Be  men  less  delicate  than 

the  Devil  himself? 
I    thought    that    naked   Truth   would 

shame  the  Devil, 
The  Devil  is  so  modest. 

Gurth.  He  never  said  it ! 

Leofwin.    Be  thou  not  stupid-honest, 

brother  Gurth  ! 
Harold.    Better  to  be  a  liar's  dog, 

and  hold 
My  master  honest,   than   believe  that 

l.yi"g 
A.nd  Tilling  men  are  fatal  twins   that 

cannot 
Move  one  without  the  other.     Edward 

wakes ! — 
Dazed  —  he  hath  seen  a  vision. 


Edward.  The  green  tree ! 

Then  a  great  Angel    past    along    the 

highest 
Crying   "the  doom   of  England,'    and 

at  once 
He  stood  beside  me,  in  his  grasp  a  sword 
Of  lightnings,  w'lerewithal  he  cleft  the 

tree 
From  off  the  bearing  trunk,  and  hurl'd 

it  from  him 
Three  fields  away,  and  then  he  dash'd 

and  drench'd. 
He   dyed,    he   soak'd  the  trunk  with 

human  blood. 
And  brought  the  sunder'd  tree  again, 

and  set  it 
Straight  on  the  trunk,  that  thus  bap- 
tized in  blood 
Grew  ever  high  and  higher,  beyond  my 

seeing, 
And  shot  out  sidelong  boughs  across 

the  deep 
That  dropt  themselves,  and  rooted  in 

far  isles 
Beyond  my  seeing  :  and  the  great  Angel 

rose 
And  past  again  along  the  highest  crying 
"The   doom    of    England!" — Tostig, 

raise  niy  head  ! 

[^Falls  bach  senseless. 
Harold  (raisinr/  him).    Let    Harold 

serve  for  Tostig  ! 
Queen.  Harold  served 

Tostig  so  ill,  he  cannot  serve  for  Tostig ! 
Ay,  raise  his  head,  for  thou  hast  laid  it 

low ! 
The  sickness  of  our  saintly  king,    for 

whom 
My  prayers  go  up  as  fast  as  my  tears 

fall, 
I  well  believe,  hath  mainly  drawn  itself 
From  lack  of  Tostig  —  thou  liaat  ban- 
ish'd  him. 
Harold.    Nay  —  but  the  Council,  and 

the  king  himself ! 
Queen.    Thou  hatest  him,  hatest  him. 
Harold  {coldly).    Ay  —  Stigand,   un- 
riddle 
This  vision,  canst  thou  ? 

Stigand.  Dotage ! 

Edward  {starting  tip).      It  is  finish'd. 
I  have  built  the  Lord  a  house  —  the 

Lord  hath  dwelt 
In  darkness.     I  have  built  the  Lord  a 

house  — 
Palms,    fiowers,    pomegranates,   golden 
1  cherubim 


554 


HAEOLD. 


With  twenty -cubit  wings  from  wall  to 

wall  — 
1  have  built  the  Lord  a  house  —  siagj 

Asaph  !  clash 
The  cymbal,  Heman  !  blow  the  trumpet, 

priest ! 
Fall,   cloud,   and  fdl   the   house  —  lo  ! 

niy  two  pillars, 
Jachin  and  Boaz  !  — 

[Seeing  Harold  and  Gurth. 

Harold,  Gurth,  — where  am  I  ? 

Where  is  the  charter  of  our  Westminster  ? 

Stigand.    It  lies  beside   thee,    king, 

upon  thy  bed. 
Edward.    Sign,  sign  at  once  —  take, 
sign  it,  Stigand,  Aldred  ! 
Sign  it,  my  good  son  Harold,  Gurth, 

and  Leofwin, 
Sign  it,  my  queen ! 

All.  We  have  sign'd  it. 

Edivard.  It  is  tinish'd  ! 

The   kingliest   Abbey  in  all  Christian 

lands. 
The  lordliest,  loftiest  minster  ever  built 
To  Holy  Peter  in  our  English  isle ! 
Let   me  be  buried  there,  and  all  our 

kings, 
And  all  our  just  and  wise  and  holy  men 
That  shall  be  born  hereafter.     It  is  fin- 

ish'd  ! 
Hast  thou  had  absolution  for  thine  oath  ? 
{To  Harold. 
Harold.    Stigand  hath  given  me  ab- 
solution for  it. 
Edivard.    Stigand    is    not    canonical 
enough 
To  save  thee  from  the  wrath  of  Norman 
Saints. 
Stigand.    Norman  enough  !     Be  there 
no  Saints  of  England 
To  help  ns  from  their  brethren  yonder? 
Edward.  Prelate, 

The  Saints  are  one,  but  those  of  Nor- 

manland 

Are  mightier  than  our  own.     Ask  it  of 

Aldred.  [To  Harold. 

Aldred.    It  shall  be  granted  him,  my 

king ;  for  he 

Who  vows  a  vow  to  strangle  his  own 

mother 
Is  guiltier  Iceoping  this,  than  lireakingit. 
Edivard.    O  friends,  I  shall  not  over- 
live the  day. 
Stigand.    Why   then    the    throne   is 
empty.     Who  inherits  ? 
For  tho'  we  be  not  bound  by  the  king's 
voice 


In  making  of  a  king,   yet  the  king's 

voice 
Is  much  toward  his  making.     Who  in- 
herits ? 
Edgar  the  Atheling  ? 

Edivard.  No,  no,  but  Harold. 

I  love  him  :  he  hath  served  me  :  none 

but  he 
Can  rule  all  England.     Yet  the  curse 

is  on  him 
For  swearing  falsely  by  those  blessed 

bones  ; 
He  did  not  mean  to  keep  his  vow. 

Harold.  Not  mean 

To  make  our  England  Norman. 

Edivard.  There  spake  Godwin, 

Who  hated  all  the  Normans  ;  but  their 

Saints 
Have  heard  thee,  Harold. 

Edith.  Oh  !  my  lord,  my  king  ! 

He  knew  not  whom  he  sware  by. 

Edward.  Yea,  I  know 

He  knew  not,  but  those  heavenly  ears 

have  heard. 
Their  curse  is  on  him  ;  wilt  thou  bring 

another, 
Edith,  upon  his  head  ? 
Edith.  No,  no,  not  I. 

Edivard.    Why  then,  thou  must  not 

wed  him. 
Harold.  Wherefore,  wherefore  ? 

Edward.    0  son,  when  thou  didst  tell 

me  of  thine  oath, 
I  sorrow'd  for  my  random  promise  given 
To  you  fox-lion.     I  did  not  dream  then 
I  should  be  king.  —  Isly  son,  the  Saints 

are  virgins ; 
They  love  the  white  rose  of  virginity. 
The  cold,  white  lily  blowing  in  her  cell : 
I  have  been  myself  a  virgin  ;  and  I  sware 
To  consecrate  my  virgin  hei-e  to  lieaven — 
The  silent,  cloister'd,  solitary  life, 
A  life  of  life-long  prayer  against  the  cur.se 
That  lies  on  thee  and  England. 

Harold.  No,  no,  no. 

Edward.    Treble  denial  of  the  tongue 

of  flesh. 
Like  Peter's  when  he  fell,  and  thou  wilt 

have 
To  wail  for  it  like  Peter.     0  my  son  ! 
Are  all  oaths  to  be  broken   then,   all 

promises 
Made  in  our  agony  for  help  from  heaven  ? 
Son,  there  is  one  '.vho  loves  thee  :  and  a 

wife. 
What  matters  who,  so  she  be  seiTice- 

able 


HAEOLD. 


555 


In   all   obedience,  as   mine  own   hath 

been  : 
God  bless  thee,  wedded  daughter. 
[Laying  his  hand  on  the  Queen's  head. 
Queen.  Bless  thou  too 

That  brother  whom  I  love  beyond  the 

rest, 
My  banish'd  Tostig. 

Edward.    All  the  sweet  Saints  bless 
him  ! 
Spare  and  forbear  him,   Harold,  if  he 

comes ! 
And  let  him  pass  unscathed  ;  \w,  loves 

me,  Harold  ! 
Be  kindly  to  the  Normans  left  among 

us. 
Who  foUow'd  me   for  love  !  and  dear 

son,  swear. 
When  thou  art  king,  to  see  my  solemn 

vow 
Accomplish'd  ! 

Harold.    Nay,  dear  lord,  for  I  have 
sworn 
Not  to  swear  falsely  twice. 
Edward.  Thou  wilt  not  swear  ? 

Harold.    I  cannot. 

Edward.    Then  on  thee  remains  the 
curse, 
Harold,  if  thou  embrace  her ;  and  on 

thee, 
Edith,  if  thou  abide  it,  — 

[The  KiNQ  sivoons :  Editu  falls  and 
kneels  hy  the  couch. 
Stigand.  He  hath  swoon'd  ! 

Death  ? .  .  .  no,  as  yet  a  breath. 

Harold.  Look  up  !  look  up ! 

Edith  ! 

Aldred.    Confuse  her  not ;  she  hath 
begun 
Her  life-long  prayer  for  thee. 

Aldwiifh.  0  noble  Harold, 

I  would  tliou  couldst  have  sworn. 
Harold.         For  thine  own  pleasure  ? 
Aldwjjth.    No,  but  to  please  our  dying 
king,  and  those 
Who  make  thy  good    their  own  —  all 
England,   Earl. 
Aldred.    I  would  thou  couldst  have 
sworn.     Our  holy  king 
Hath  given   his  virgin  lamb  to  Holy 

Church 
To  save  tliee  from  the  curse. 

Harold.  Alas  !  p  oor  man, 

His  promise  brought  it  on  me. 

Aldred.  0  good  son  ! 

That  knowledge  made  him  all  the  care- 
fuller 


To  find  a  means  whereby  the  curse  might 

glauce 
From  thee  and  England. 

Harold.  Father,  we  so  loved  — 

Aldred.    The    more     the     love,    the 

mightier  is  the  prayer  ; 

The  more  the  love,  the  more  acceptable 

The   sacrifice   of    both    your    loves    to 

heaven. 
No  sacrifice  to  heaven,   no   help  from 

heaven  ; 
That  runs  thro'  all  the  faiths  of  all  the 

world. 
And  sacrifice  there  must  be,  for  the  king 
Is  holy,  and  hath  talk'd  with  God,  and 

seen 
A  shadowing  horror  ;  there  are  signs  in 
heaven  — 
Harold.    Your  comet  came  and  went. 
Aldred.  And  signs  on  earth  ! 

Knowest  thou  Senlac  hill  ? 

Harold.  I  know  all  Sussex  ; 

A   good    intrenchment   for  a    perilous 
hour  ! 
Aldred.    Pray  God  that  come  not  sud- 
denly !   "There  is  one 
Who  passing  by  that  hill  three  nights 

ago  — 
He  shook  so  that  he  scarce  could  out 

with  it  — 
Heard,  heard  — 
Harold.  The  wind  in  his  hair  ? 

Aldred.  A  ghostly  horn 

Blowing  continually,  and  faint  battle- 

lijTuns, 
And  cries,  and  clashes,  and  the  groans 

of  men  ; 
And  dreadful  shadows  strove  upon  the 

hill. 
And  dreadful  lights  crept  up  from  out 

the  marsh  — 
Corpse-candles    gliding    over   nameles.s 
graves  — 
Harold.    At  Senlac  ? 
Aldred.  Senlac. 

Edward  {wn.lcinq).  Senlac !  Sanguelac, 
The  Lake  of  Blood  ! 

Stigand.    This  lightning  before  death 

Plays  on  the  word,  —  and  Normanizes 

too! 

Harold.    Hush,  father,  hush  ! 

Edward.  Thou  uncanonical  fool. 

Wilt  thou  play  with  the  thunder  ?   North 

and  South 
Thunder  together,  showers  of  blood  are 

blown 
Before  a  never-ending  blast,  aud  hiss 


556 


HAROLD. 


Against  the  blaze  they  cannot  quench 

—  a  lake, 
A  sea   of  blood  —  we  are  drown'd   in 

blood  —  for  God 
Has  fiU'd  the  quiver,   and  Death  has 

drawn  the  bow  — 
Sanguelac  !  Sanguelac  !  the  arrow  !  the 

arrow !  [Dies. 

Stigand.    It  is  the  arrow  of  death  in 

his  own  heart  — 
And  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown 

thee  King. 

SCENE  II. —IN  THE  GARDEN.    THE 
KING'S  HOUSE  NEAR  LONDON. 

Edith.    Crown'd,    crown'd   and    lost, 
crown'd  King  —  and  lost  to  lue  ! 

{Sincjmg. ) 

Two  young  lovers  in  winter  weather, 

None  to  guide  tlieni, 
Walk'd  at  night  on  tlie  misty  heather  ; 
Night,  as  black  as  a  raven's  featliev ; 
Both  were  lost  and  found  together. 

None  beside  tlieni. 

That  is  the   burthen  of  it  —  lost  and 

found 
Together  in  the  cruel  river  Swale 
A  hundred  years  ago  ;  and  there  's  an- 
other, 

Lost,  lost,  the  light  of  day. 

To  which  the  lover  answers  lovingly 

"  I  am  beside  thee." 
Lost,  lost,  we  liave  lost  the  way. 

"  Love,  I  will  guide  thee." 
Whither,  O  whither?  into  the  river. 
Where  we  two  may  be  lost  together. 
And  lost  forever?     "  Oh  !  never,  oh  !  never, 
Tho'  we  be  lost  and  be  found  together." 

Some  think  they  loved  within  the  pale 

forbidden 
By  Holy  Church  :  but  who  shall  say  ? 

the  truth 
Was  lost  in  that  fierce  North,  where  they 

were  lost, 
Where  all  good  things  are  lost,  where 

Tostig  lost 
The  good  hearts  of  his  people.     It  is 

Harold  ! 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold  the  King  ! 

Harold.  Call  me  not  King,  but  Har- 
old. 

Edith.    Nay,  thou  art  King  ! 

Harold.  Thine,  thine,  or  King  or 
churl  I 


My  girl,  thou  hast  been  weeping  :  turn 

not  thou 
Thy  face  away,  but  rathei'  let  me  be 
King  of  the  moment  to  thee,  and  com- 
mand 
That  kiss  my  due  when  subject,  which 

will  make 
My  kingsliip  kinglier  to  me  than  to  reign 
King  of  the  world  without  it. 

Edith.  Ask  me  not^ 

Lest  I  should  yield  it,  and  the  second 

curse 
Descend  upon  thine  head,  and  thou  be 

only 
King  of  the  moment  over  England. 

Harold.  Edith, 

Tho'  somewhat  less  a  king  to  my  true 

self 
Tiian  ere  they  crown'd  me  one,  for  I 

have  lost 
Somewhat  of  upright  stature  thro'  mine 

oath, 
Yet  thee  1  would  not  lose,  and  sell  not 

thou 
Our   living   passion    for  a  dead   man's 

dream  ; 
Stigand  believed  he  knew  not  what  he 

spake. 
0  God  !     1  cannot  help  it,  but  at  times 
They  seem  to  me  too  narrow,  all  the 

faiths 
Of  this  grown  world  of  ours,  whose  baby 

eye 
Saw  them  sufficient.     Fool  and  wise,  I 

fear 
This  curse,  and  scorn  it.     But  a  little 

light  !  — 
And  on  it  falls  the  shadow  of  the  priest ; 
Heaven  yield  us  more  !  for  better,  Wo- 
den, all 
Our  cancell'd   warrior-gods,    our    giim 

Walhalla, 
Eternal  war,   than  that   the  Saints  at 

peace 
The  Holiest  of  our  Holiest  one  should 

be 
This  William's  fellow-tricksters  ;  —  bet- 
ter die 
Than  credit  this,  for  death  is  death,  or 

else 
Lifts  us  beyond  the  lie.     Kiss  me — thou 

art  not 
A  holy  sister  yet,  my  girl,  to  fear 
There  might  be  more  than  brother  in  my 

kiss, 
And  more  than  sister  in  thine  own. 
Edith.  I  dare  not. 


HAROLD. 


557 


Harold.    Scared    by    the    church  — 
"Love  for  a  whole  life  long" 
When  was  that  sung  ? 

Edith.  Here  to  the  nightingales. 

Harold.    Their  anthems  of  no  church, 
how  sweet  they  are  .' 
Nor  kingly  priest,  nor  priestly  king  to 

cross 
Their  billings  ere  they  nest. 

Edith.  They  are  but  of  spring, 

They  fly  the  winter  change  —  not  so  with 

us  — 
No  wings  to  come  and  go. 

Harold.  But  wing'd  souls  flying 

Beyond  all  change  and  in  the  eternal 

distance 
To  settle  on  the  Truth. 

Edith.  They  are  not  so  true. 

They  change  their  mates. 
Harold.    Do  they  ?   1   did  not  know 

it. 
Edith.    They  say  thou  art  to  wed  the 

Lady  Aldwyth. 
Harold.    They  say,  they  say. 
Edith.  If  this  be  politic, 

And  well  for  thee  and  England  —  and 

for  her  — 
Care  not  for  me  who  love  thee. 

Gicrth  {calling).  Harold,  Harold  ! 

Harold.    The  voice  of  Gurth  !    {Enter 
GuKTH.)     Good  even,   my  good 
brother  ! 
Gurth.    Good  even,  gentle  Edith. 
Edith.  Good  even,  Gurth. 

Gurth.    Ill    news   hath    come  !     Our 
ha^jless  brother,  Tostig  — 
He,    and   the  giant  King   of  Norway, 

Harold 
Hardrada  —  Scotland,  Ireland,  Iceland, 

Orkney, 
Are  landed  North  of  H umber,  and  in  a 

held 
So  packt  with  carnage  that  the  dikes 

and  brooks 
Were  bridged  and  damm'd  with  dead, 

have  overthrown 
Morear  and  Edwin. 

Harold.      Well,  then,  we  must  fight. 
How  blows  the  wind  ? 

Gurth.  Against  St.  Valery 

And  William. 

Harold.    Well  then,  we  will  to  the 

North. 
Gurth.    Ay,    but   worse    news :    this 
William  sent  to  Rome, 
Swearing  thou   swarest  falsely  by   bis 
Saints : 


The  Pope  and  that  Archdeacon  Hilde- 

brand 
His  master,  heard  him,  and  have  sent 

him  back 
A  holy  gonfalon,  and  a  blessed  hair 
Of  Peter,  and  all  France,  all  Burgundj', 
Poitou,  all  Christendom,  is  raised  against 

thee  ; 
He  hath  cursed  thee,  and  all  those  who 

fight  for  thee. 
And  given  thy  realm  of  England  to  the 
bastard. 
Harold.    Ha  !  ha  ! 

Edith.    Oh  !   laugh   not  ! .  .  .  Strange 
and  ghastly  in  the  gloom 
Antl  shadowing  of  this  double  thunder- 
cloud 
That  lowers  on  England  —  laughter  ! 

Harold.  No,  not  strange  ! 

This  was  old   human    laughter  in  old 

Rome 
Before  a  Pope  was  born,  when  that  which 

reign 'd 
Call'd  itself  God.  —  A  kindly  rendering 
Of  "Render  unto  Caisai'."  .  .  .  The  Good 

Shepherd  ! 
Take  this,  and  render  that. 

Gurth.  They  have  taken  York. 

Harold.    The  Lord  wa.s  God  and  came 

as  man  —  the  Pope 

Is  man  and  comes  as  God.  — York  taken  ? 

Gurth.  Yea, 

Tostig  hath  taken  York  ! 

Harold.  To  York  then.     Edith, 

Hadst  thou  been  braver,   1  had  better 

braved 
All  —  but  1  love  thee  and  thou  me  — 

and  that 
Remains    beyond    all    chances    and    all 

churches, 
And  that  thou  knowest. 

Edith.      Ay,  but  take  back  thy  ring. 
It  burns  my  hand  —  a  curse  to  thee  and 

me. 
I  dare  not  wear  it. 

[Proffers  Harold  the  rinij,  ivhich  he 

takes. 

Harold.    But  I  dare.     God  with  ihee  ! 

[E.munt  Hakold  and  Gukth. 

Edith.    The  King  hath  cursed  him, 

if  he  marry  me  ; 

The  Pope  hath  cursed  him,  marry  me  or 

no  ! 
God  help  me  !     I  know  nothing  —  can 

but  pray 
For  Harold  —  pray,  pray,  pray —  no  help 
but  prayer, 


558 


HAEOLD. 


A  breath  that  fleets  beyond  this  iron 

world, 
And  touches  Him  that  made  it. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE.  —  IN  NORTHUMBRIA. 

Archbishop  Aldred,  Morcar,  Edwin, 
and  Forces.  Enter  Harold  ;  the 
standard  of  the  golden  Dragon  of  Wes- 
sex  preceding  him. 

Harold.    What !  are  thy  people  sullen 
from  defeat  ? 
Our  Wessex   dragon   files   beyond   the 

Humber, 
No  voice  to  greet  it. 

Edwin.  Let  not  our  great  king 

Believe  us  sullen  —  only  shamed  to  the 

quick 
Before   the  king  —  as   having  been  so 

bruised 
By  Harold,  king  of  Norway  ;  but  our 

help 
Is  Harold,  king  of  England.    Pardon  us, 

thou  ! 
Our  silence  is  our  reverence  for  the  king! 
Harold.    P^arl  of  the  Mercians  !  if  the 
truth  be  gall, 
Cram  me  not  thou  with  honey,  when  our 

good  hive 
Needs  every  sting  to  save  it. 

Voices.  Aldwyth  !  Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.    Why  cry  thy  people  on  thy 

sister's  name  ? 
Morcar.    She    hath    won    upon    our 
people  thro'  her  beauty, 
And  pleasantness  among  them. 

Voices.  Aldwyth,  Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.    They  shout   as  they  would 

have  her  for  a  queen. 
Morcar.    She  hath  foUow'd  with  our 

host,  and  suffer'd  all. 
Harold.    What  would  ye,  men  ? 
Voice.    Our  ohl  Northumbrian  crown 
And  kings  of  our  own  choosing. 

Harold.  Your  old  crown 

Were    little   help   without   our    Saxon 

carles 
Against  Hardrada. 

Voice.  Little  !  we  are  Danes, 

Who  conquer'd  what  we  walk  on,  our 

own  held. 

Harold.    They    have     been    plotting 

here  !  {Aside. 

Voice.  He  calls  us  little  ! 


Harold.    The  kingdoms  of  this  world 
began  with  little, 
A  hill,  a  fort,  a  city  —  that  reach'd  a 

hand 
Down  to  the  field  beneath  it,  "  Be  thou 

mine," 
Then  to  the  next,  "Thou also  "  —  if  the 

field 
Cried  out  "I  am  mine  own  "  ;  another 

hill. 
Or  fort,  or  city,  took  it,  and  the  first 
Fell,  and  the  next  became  an  Empire. 

Voice.  Yet 

Thou  art  but  a   West  Saxon  ;  we  are 
Danes  ! 
Harold.    My  mother  is  a  Dane,  and  I 
am  English  ; 
There  is  a  pleasant  fable  in  old  books, 
Ye  take  a  stick,  and  break  it ;  bind  a 

scoi-e 
All  in  one  fagot,  snap  it  over  knee, 
Ye  cannot. 

Voice.    Hear  King   Harold  !  he  says 

true  ! 
Harold.    Would  ye  be  Norsemen  ? 
Voices.  No  ! 

Harold.  Or  Norman  ? 

Voices.  No  ! 

Harold.    Snap    not    the    fagot-baud 

then. 
Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.    Ay,  but  thou  art  not  kingly, 
only  grandson 
To  Wulfnoth,  a  poor  cow-herd. 

Harold.  This  old  Wulfnoth 

Would  take  me  on  his  knees  and  tell  me 

tales 
Of  Alfred  and  of  Athelstan  the  Great 
Who  drove  you  Danes  ;  and  yet  he  held 

that  Dane, 
Jute,  Angle,  Saxon,  were  or  should  be 

all 
One  England,  for  tliis  cow-herd,  like  my 

father, 
Who  shook  the  Norman  scoundrels  off 

the  throne, 
Had  in  liim  kingly  thoughts  —  a  king 

of  men. 
Not  made  but  born,  like  the  great  King 

of  all, 
A  light  among  the  oxen. 

Voice.  That  is  true  I 

Voice.    Ay,  and  I  love  him  now,  for 
mine  own  father 
Was  great,  and  cobbled. 

Voice.  Thou  art  Tostig's  brother, 

Who  wastes  the  land. 


HAROLD. 


559 


Harold.      This  brother  comes  to  save 
Your  land  from  waste  ;  I  saved  it  once 

before, 
For  when  your  people  banish 'd  Tostig 

hence, 
And  Edwaid   would   have  sent  a  host 

against  you, 
Then  I,  who  loved  ray  brother,  bade  the 

king 
Who  doted  on  him,  sanction  your  decree 
Of  Tostig's  banishment,  and   choice  of 

Morcar, 
To  help  the  realm  from  scattering. 

Voice.  King  !  thy  brother, 

If  one  may  dare  to  speak  the  truth,  was 

wrong' d. 
Wild   was   he,  born   so  :  but  the  plots 

against  him 
Had  madden'd  tamer  men. 

Morcar.  Thou  art  one  of  those 

Who  brake  into  Lord  Tostig's  treasure- 
house 
And  slew  two  hundred  of  his  following, 
And  now,  when  Tostig  hath  come  back 

with  power. 
Are  frighted  back  to  Tostig. 

Old  Tlume.    Ugh  !     Plots  and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday.     Can  ye 

not 
Be  brethren  ?    Godwin  still  at  feud  with 

Alfgar, 
And  Alfgar  hates  King  Harold.     Plots 

and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birtliday  ! 

Harold.  Old  man,  Harold 

Hates  nothing  ;  not  Ms  fault,  if  our  two 

houses 
*3e  less  than  brothers. 

Foice.t.    Aldwyth,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 
Harold.    Again  !     ilorcar  !     Edwin  ! 

What  do  they  mean  ? 
Edwin.    So  the  good  king  would  deign 
to  lend  an  ear 
Not  overscornful,    we  might   chance  — 

perchance  — 
To  guess  their  meaning. 
Morcar.    Thine   own   meaninjr,    Har- 
old. 
To  make  all  England  one,  to  close  all 

feuds. 
Mixing  our  bloods,  that  thence  a  king 

may  rise 
Half-Godwi'i  and  half-Alfgar,  one  to  rule 
All  England   beyond  question,  beyond 
quarrel. 
Harold.    Who  sow'd  this  fancy  here 
smong  the  people  ? 


Morcar.    Who  knows  what  sows  itself 
among  the  people  ? 
A  goodly  flower  at  times. 

Harold.  Tlie  Queen  of  Wales  ? 

Why,  Morcar,  it  is  ail  but  duty  in  her 

To  hate  me  ;  I  have  heard  she  hates  me. 

Morcar.  J^o. 

For  I  can  swear  to  that,    but   cannot 

swear 
That  these  will  follow  thee  against  the 

Norsemen, 
If  thou  deny  them  this. 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin, 

When  will  ye  cease  to  plot  against  my 

house  ? 

Edwin.    The  king  can  scarcely  dieam 

that  we,  who  know 

His  prowess   in  the   mountains  of  the 

West, 
Should  care  to  plot  against  him  in  the 
North. 
Morcar.    Who  dares  arraign  us,  king, 

of  such  a  plot  ? 
Harold.    Ye  heard  one  witness  even 

now. 
Morcar.       The  craven  ! 
There  is  a  faction  risen  again  for  Tostig, 
Since  Tostig  came  with  Norway  —  fright 
not  love. 
Harold.    Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye, 
if  I  yield. 
Follow  against  the  Norseman  ? 

Morcar.  Surely,  surely  ! 

Harold.    Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye 
upon  oath 
Help  us  against  the  Nonnan  ? 

Morcar.  AVith  good  will ; 

Yea,  take  the  Sacrament  upon  it.  king. 
Harold.    Where  is  tiiy  sister  ? 
Morcar.        Somewhere  hard  at  hand. 
Call  and  she  comes. 

[One  goes  out,  then  enter  Aldwyth. 
Harold.    I  doubt  not  but  thou  know- 
est 
Why  thou  art  summon'd. 

Aldwyth.  Why  ?  —  I  stay  with  these, 
Lest  thy  fierce  Tostig  spy  me  out  alone, 
And  Hay  me  all  alive. 

Harold.  Canst  thon  love  one 

Who  did  discrown  thine  husband,  un- 

queen  thee  ? 
Didst  thou  not  love  thine  husband  ? 

Aldwyth.  Oh  !  my  lord, 

The   nimble,    wild,    red,    wiry,    savage 

king  — 
That  was,  my  lord,  a  match  of  policy. 
Harold.  Was  it  ? 


560 


HAROLD. 


I  knew  him  brave  :  he  loved  his  land  : 

he  fain 
Had  made  her  great :  his  finger  on  her 

harp 
(I  heard  him  more  than  once)  had  in  it 

Wales, 
Her  floods,  her  woods,  her  hills  :  had  I 

been  his, 
J  had  been  all  Welsh. 
Aldioyth.    Oh,  ay  —  all  Welsh  —  and 

yet 
I  saw  thee  drive  him  up  his  hills  —  and 

women 
Cling  to  the  conquer'd  if  they  love,  the 

more  ; 
If  not,  they  cannot  hate  the  conqueror. 
We   never  —  oh  !  good    Morcar,    speak 

for  us, 
His  conqueror  conquer'd  Aldwyth. 
Harold.  Goodly  news  ! 

Morcar.    Doubt  it  not  thou  !     Since 

Griffyth's  head  was  sent 
To  Edward,  she  hath  said  it. 

Harold.  I  had  rather 

She   would   have   loved   her    husband. 

Aldwyth,  Aldwyth, 
Canst  thou  love  me,  thou  knowing  where 

I  love  ? 
Aldiuyth.    I  can,  my   lord,  for  mine 

own  sake,  for  thine. 
For  England,  for  thy  poor  white  dove, 

who  flutters 
Between  thee  and  the  porch,  but  then 

would  find 
Her  nest  within   the  cloister,  and   be 

still. 
Harold.    Canst   thou  love   one,    who 

cannot  love  again  ? 
Aldwyth.    Full  hope  have  I  that  love 

will  answer  love. 
Harold.    Then   in   the   name   of  the 

great  God,  so  be  it  ! 
Come,  Aldred,  join  our  hands  before  the 

hosts, 
That  all  may  see. 

[Aldked  joins  the  hands  of  Harold 

and  Aldwyth  and  blesses  t/iem. 
Voices.    Harold,     Harold    and    Ald- 
wyth ! 
Harold.    Set  forth  our  golden  Dragon, 

let  him  flap 
The  wings  tliat  beat  down  Wales  ! 
Advance  our  Standard  of  the  Warrior, 
Dark  among  gems  and  gold  ;  and  thou, 

brave  banner, 
Blaze  like  a  night  of  fatal  stars  on  those 
Who  read  their  doom  and  die. 


Where  lie  the  Norsemen  ?  on  the  Der- 

went  ?  ay 
At  Stamford-bridge. 
Morcar,  collect   thy  men  ;  Edwin,  my 

friend  — 
Thou  liugerest.  —  Gurth,  — 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  tc  me  in 

dreams  — 
The  rosy  face  and  long  down-silvering 

beard  — 
He  told  me  I  should  conquer  :  — 
I  am  no  woman  to  put  faith  in  dreams. 

(To  his  army.) 
Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me  in 

dreams. 
And  told  me  we  should  conquer. 

Voices.  Forward  !     Forward  I 

Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 
Aldwyth.  The  day  is  won/ 

SCENE  II.  —  A  PLAIN.   BEFORE  THE 
BATTLE  OF  STAMFORD-BRCDGE. 

Harold  and  his  Guard. 

Harold.  Who  is  it  comes  this  way  ? 
fostig?     (Enter  Tostig   with  a 
small  force.)     0  brother. 
What  art  thou  doing  here  ? 

Tostig.  I  am  foraging 

For  Norway's  ai'my. 

Harold.      I  could  take  and  slay  thee. 
Thou  art  in  arms  against  us. 

Tostig.  Take  and  slay  me. 

For  Edward  loved  me. 

Harold.    Edward  bade  me  spare  thee. 
Tostig.    1  hate  King  Edward,  for  he 
join'd  with  thee 
To  drive  me  outlaw'd.     Take  and  slay 

me,  I  say, 
Or  I  shall  count  thee  fool. 

Harokl.  Take  thee,  or  free  thee, 

Free   thee   or  slay   thee,    Norway   will 

have  war ; 
No  man  would  strike  with  Tostig,  save 

for  Norway. 
Thou   art   nothing    in   thine    England, 

save  for  Norway, 
Who   loves  not   thee   but  war.     What 

dost  thou  here, 
Trampling    thy   mother's    bosom    into 
blood  ? 
Tostig.    She  hath  wean'd  me  from  it 
with  such  bitterness. 
I    come   for    mine    own   Earldom,   my 

Northumbria  ; 
Thou  hast  given  it  to  the  enemy  of  oui 
house. 


HAKOLD. 


561 


Harold.    Northnmbria  threw  thee  off, 
she  will  Dot  have  thee, 
Thou  hast  misused  her  ;  and,  0  crown- 
ing crime  ! 
Hast  murder'd  thine  own  guest,  the  son 

of  Orm, 
Gamel,  at  thine  own  hearth. 

Tostig.  The  slow,  fat  fool  ! 

He  drawl'd  and  prated  so,  1  smote  him 

suddenly : 
I  knew  not  what  I  did. 

Hn.rold.  Come  back  to  as, 

Know  what  thou  dost,  and  we  may  find 

for  thee, 
So  thou  be   chasten'd  by   thy   banish- 
ment, 
Some  easier  Earldom. 

Tostig.  \\'hat  for  Norway  then  ? 

He  looks  for  land  among  you,  he  and 
his. 
Harold.    Seven  feet  of  English  land, 
or  something  more. 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant. 

Tostiq.  0  brother,  brother, 

0  Harold  — 

Harold.    Nay,  then  come  thou  back  to 

us  ! 
Tostig.    Never  shall  any  man  say  that 

I,  that  Tostig 
Conjured  the  mightier  Harold  from  his 

North 
To  do  the  battle  for  me  here  in  England, 
Then  left  him  for  the  meaner  !  thee  !  — 
Thou  hast  no  passion  for  the  House  of 

Godwin  — 
Thou  hast  but  cared  to  make  thyself* a 

king  — 
Thou  ha.st  sold  me  for  a  cry.  — 
Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in  the 

Council  — 

1  hate  thee,  and  despise  thee,  and  defy 

thee. 
Farewell  forever  !  {Exit. 

Harold.  On  to  Stamford-bridge  ! 

SCENE   ni.  — AFTER   THE    BATTLE 
OF  STAMFORD-BRIDGE.    BANQUET. 

Harold  and  Aldwtth.  Gurth,  Leof- 
wiN,  MoRCAR,  Edwin,  and  other  Earls 
and  Thanes. 

Voices.  Hail !  Harold  !  Aldwyth  !  hail, 

bi-idegroom  and  bride  ! 
Aldinjth  (talking  v-ith  Harold).    An- 
swer them  thou  ! 
Is  this  our  inarriage-banq\iet  ?     Would 
the  wines 


Of  wedding  had  been  dash'd  into  the 

cups 
Of  victory,  and  our  marriage  and  thy 

glory 
Been  drunk  together  !  these  poor  hands 

but  sew. 
Spin,  broider  —  would   that  they  were 

man's  to  have  held 
The  battle-axe  by  thee  ! 

Harold.  Tliere  ivas  a  moment 

When  being  forced  aloof  from  all  my 

guard. 
And  striking  at  Hardrada  and  his  mad- 
men, 
I  had  wish'd  for  any  weapon. 

Aldwyth.  Why  art  thou  sad  ? 

Harold.    I    have    lost   the    boy   who 
played  at  ball  with  nie. 
With  whom  I  fought  another  fight  than 

this 
Of  Stamford-bridge. 

Aldicyth.  Ay  !  ay  !  thy  victories 

Over  our  own  poor  Wales,  when  at  thy 

side 
He  conquer'd  with  thee. 

Harold.  No  —  the  childish  fist 

That  cannot  strike  again. 

Aldwyth.  Thou  art  too  kindly. 

Why  didst  thou  let  so  many  Norsemen 

hence  ? 
Thy  fierce  forekings  had  clinch'd  their 

pirate  hides 
To  the  bleak  church  doors,  like   kites 
upon  a  barn. 
Harold.    Is  there  so  great  a  need  to 

tell  thee  why  ? 
Aldwyth.    Yea,  am  I  not  thy  wife? 
Voices.  Hail,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 

Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 

Aldwyth.  Answer  them  I 

[To  Harold. 

Harold  {to  all).       Earls  and  Thanes  ! 

Full  thanks  for  your  fair  greeting  of  my 

bride  ! 
Earls,  Thanes,  and  all  our  countrymen  ! 

the  day. 
Our  day  beside  the  Derwent  will  not 

shine 
Less  than  a  star  among  the  gold  en  est 

hours 
Of   Alfred,    or    of    Edward    his    great 

son. 
Or  Athelstan,  or  English  Ironside 
Who  fought  witli  Knut,  or  Knut  who 

coming  Dane 
D'iad    English.     Every  man   about  his 
king 


562 


HAROLD. 


Fought  like  a  king ;  the  king  like  his 

own  man, 
No  better  ;  one  for  all,  and  all  for  one, 
One  soul :  and  therefore  have  we  shat- 

ter'd  hack 
The  hugest  wave  from  Norseland  ever 

yet 
Surged  on  us,  and  our  battle-axes  broken 
The  Eaven's  wing,  and  dumb'd  his  car- 
rion croak 
From  the  gray  sea  forever.     Many  are 

gone  — 
Drink  to  the  dead  who  died  for  us,  the 

living 
Who  fought  and  would  have  died,  but 

happier  lived. 
If  happier  be  to  live  ;  they  both  have 

life 
In  the  large  mouth  of  England,  till  her 

voice 
Die  with  the  world.     Hail !  —  hail ! 
Morcar.    May  all  invaders  perish  like 

Hardrada  ! 
All  traitors  fail  like  Tostig  ! 

[All  drink  but  Harold, 
Aldwyth.  Thy  cup  's  full  ! 

Harold.    I   saw  the   hand  of  Tostig 

cover  it. 
Our  dear,  dead,  traitor-brother,  Tostig, 

him 
Reverently  we  buried.     Friends,  had  I 

been  here, 
Without  too  large  self- lauding  I  must 

hold 
The   sequel   had   been   other  than    his 

league 
With  Norway,  and  this  battle.     Peace 

be  with  him  ! 
He  was  not  of  the  worst.     If  there  be 

those 
At  banquet  in  this  hall,   and   hearing 

me  — 
For  there  be  those  I  fear  who  pi'ick'd 

tlie  lion 
To  make  hira  spring,  that  sight  of  Dan- 
ish blood 
Might  serve  an  end  not  English  —  peace 

with  them 
Likewise,  if  the7j  cpn  be  at  peace  with 

what 
God  gave  us  to  divide  us  from  the  wolf  ! 
Aldwyth  (aside  to   Harold).     Make 

not  our  Morcar  sullen  :  it  is  not 

wise. 
Harold.  Hail  to  the  living  who  fought, 

the  dead  Avho  fell ! 
Voices.    Hail,  hail  ! 


Fii'st  Thane.    How  ran   that  answer 

which  King  Harold  gave 
To  his  dead  namesake,  when  he  ask'd 

for  England  ? 
Leqfifin.     "Seven    feet   of   English 

earth,  or  something  more, 
Seeing  he  is  a  giant !  " 

First  Thane.        Then  for  the  bastard 
Six  feet  and  nothing  more  ! 

Lcofwin.  Ay,  but  belike 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  his  measure. 

First  Thane.  By  St.  Edmund 

I  over-measure  him.    Sound  sleep  to  the 

man 
Here  by  dead  Norway  without  dream  or 

dawn ! 
Second  Thane.    What  is  he  bragging 

still  that  he  will  come 
To  thrust  our    Harold's    throne   from 

under  him  ? 
My  nurse  would  tell  me  of  a  molehill 

crying 
To  a  mountain  "Stand  aside  and  room 

for  me !  " 
First  Thane.    Let  him  come  !  let  him 

come.       Here  's  to  him,  sink  or 

swim  !  [Drinks. 

Second  Thane.    God  sink  him  ! 
First    Thane.     Cannot   hands   which 

had  the  strength 
To  shove  that  stranded  iceberg  off  our 

shores, 
And  send  the  sliatter'd  North  again  to 

sea. 
Scuttle  his  cockle-shell  ?     What 's  Bru- 

nanburg 
To  Stamford-bridge?  a  war-crash,    and 

so  hard. 
So  loud,  that,  by  St.   Dnnstan,  old  St. 

Thor  — 
By  God,  we  thought  him  dead  —  but 

our  old  Thor 
Heard  his  own  thunder  again,  and  woke 

and  came 
Among  us  again,  and  mark'd  the  sons 

of  those 
Who  made  this  Britain  England,  break 

the  North : 

Mark'd  how  the  war-axe  swang, 
Heard  how  the  war-horn  sang, 
Mai'k'd  how  the  spear-head  sprang, 
Heard  how  the  shield-wall  rang, 
Iron  on  iron  clang. 
Anvil  on  hammer  bang  — 

Second    Thane.     Hammer   on    anvil, 
hammer  on  anvil.     Old  dog, 
Thou  art  drunk,  old  dog  ! 


HAROLD. 


563 


First  Thane,    Too  drunk  to  fight  with 

thee  ! 
Second  Thane.    Fight  thou  with  thine 

own  double,  not  with  me, 
Keep  that  for  Xorman  William  ! 
First  Thane.    Down  with  William. 
Third    Thane.     The   washerwoman's 

brat  ! 
Fourth  Thane.    The  tanner's  bastard  ! 
Fifth  Thane.    The  Falaise  byblow ! 

Enter  a  Thane,  from  Pevensey,  spattered 
with  mud. 

Harold.         Ay,  but  what  late  guest, 
As  haggard  as  a  fast  of  forty  days, 
And  caked  and  plaster'd  with  a  hundred 

mires, 
Hath  stumbled  on  our  cups  ? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.    My  lord  the 

King  ! 
William  the  Norman,  for  the  wind  had 

changed  — 
Harold.    I   felt  it  in  the  middle  of 

that  fierce  light 
At     Stamford -bridge.      William    hath 

landed,  ha  ? 
Thane  from  Pevensey.   Landed  at  Pev- 
ensey —  I  am  from  Pevensey  — 
Hath  wasted  all  the  land  at  Pevensey  — 
Hath  harried   mine   own  cattle  —  God 

confound  him  ! 
I  have  ridden  night  and  day  from  Pev- 
ensey — 
A  thousand  ships,  a  hundred  thousand 

men  — 
Thousands    of    horses,    like    as    many 

lions 
Neighing  and  roaring  as  they  leapt  to 

land  — 
Harold.    How  oft  in  coming  hast  thou 

broken  bread  ? 
Thane  from  Pevensey.    Some  thrice, 

or  so. 
Harold.         Bring  not  thy  hollowness 
On  our  full  feast.     Famine  is  fear,  were 

it  but 
Of  being  starved.     Sit  down,  sit  down, 

and  eat, 
And,    W'hen    again   red-blooded,    speak 

again  ; 

{Aside.) 
The  men  that  guarded  England  to  the 

South 
Were  scatter'd  to  the   harvest.  .  .  .  No 

power  mine 
To  hold  their  force  together, .  , ,  Many 

are  fallen 


At  Stamford-bridge.  .  .  .  the  people  stu- 

])id-sure 
Sleep  like  their  swine.  ...  in  South  and 

North  at  once 
I  could  not  be. 

{Aloud.) 

Gurth,  Leofwin,  Morcar,  Edwin  ! 
{Pointi.ig  to  the  revellers.)    The  curse  of 

England  !  these  are  drown'd  in 

wassail. 
And  cannot  see  the  world  but  thro'  theii 

wines  ! 
Leave  them !    and  thee  too,  Aldwyth, 

must  I  leave  — 
Harsh  is  the  news  !  hard  is  our  honey- 
moon ! 
Thy  pardon.      {Turning  round  to  his 

attendants.)     Break  the  banquet 

up.  .  .  .  Ye  foui- ! 
And  thou,  my  carrier-pigeon  of  black 

news, 
Cram  thy  crop  full,  but  come  when  thou 

art  call'd.  [Exit  Hakold, 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  L  — A  TENT  ON  A  MOUND, 
FROM  WHICH  CAN  BE  SEEN  THE 
FIELD   OF  SENLAC. 

Harold,  sitting ;  by  him  standing  Hugh 
Margot  the  Monk,  Gurth,  Leofwin. 

Harold.    Refer  my  cause,  my  crown 

to  Piome  !  .  .  .  The  wolf 
Mudded  the  brook,  and  predetermined 

alL 
Monk, 
Thou  hast  said  thy  say,  and  had  my 

constant  "No" 
For  all  but  instant  battle.     I  hear  nc 

more. 
Margot.    Hear  me  again  —  for  the  last 

time.     Aiise, 
Scatter  thy  people  home,  descend  the 

hill. 
Lay   hands   of    full   allegiance  in   thy 

Lord's 
And  crave  his  mercy,  for  the  Holy  Father 
Hath  given  this  realm  of  England  to  the 

Norman. 
Harold.    Then    for    the    last    time, 

monk,   I  ask  again 
When  had  the  Lateran  and  the  Holy 

Father 


664 


HAROLD. 


To  do  with  England's  choice  of  her  own 

king  ? 
Margot.     Earl,     the    first    Christian 

Csesar  drew  to  the  East 
To  leave  tlie  Poi^e  dominion  in  the  West. 
He  gave  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 

West. 
Harold.    So  !  —  did    he  ?  —  Earl  —  1 

have  a  mind  to  play 
The  William  with  thine  eyesight  and 

thy  tongue. 
Earl  —  ay  —  thou  art  but  a  messenger 

of  William. 
I  am  weary  —  go  :  make  me  not  wroth 

with  thee  ! 
Margot.    Mock-king,    I   am  the  mes- 
senger of  God, 
His    Norman    Daniel  ;    Mene,     Mene, 

Tekel ! 
Is  thy  wrath  Hell,  that  I  should  spare 

to  cry, 
Yon  heaven  is  wroth  with  thee  ?    Hear 

me  again  ! 
Our  Saints  have  moved  the  Church  that 

moves  the  world. 
And  all  the  Heavens  and  very  God  : 

they  heard  — 
They  know  King  Edward's  promise  and 

thine  —  thine. 
Harold.    Should  they  not  know  free 

England  crowns  herself? 
Not  know  that  he  nor  I  had  power  to 

promise  ? 
Not  know  that    Edward   cancell'd   his 

own  promise? 
And  for  my  part  therein  —  Back  to  that 

juggler,  [Rising. 

Tell  him  the  Saints  are  nobler  than  he 

dreams, 
Tell  him  that  God  is  nobler  than  the 

Saints, 
And  tell  him  we  stand  arm'd  on  Senlac 

Hill, 
And  bide  the  doom  of  God. 

Margot.  Hear  it  thro'  me. 

The  realm  for  which  thou  art  forswoin 

is  cursed, 
The  babe  enwomb'd  and  at  the  breast  is 

cursed. 
The  corpse  thou  whelmest  with  thine 

earth  is  cursed. 
The  soul  who  fighteth  on  thy  side  is 

cursed. 
The  seed  thou  so  west  in   thy  field  is 

cursed. 
The  steer  wherewith  thou  ploughest  thy 

field  is  cursed. 


The  fowl  that  fleeth  o'er  thy  field  is 

cursed. 
And  thou,  usurper,  liar  — 

Harold.  Out,  beast  monk ! 

[Lifting    his    hand    to    strike    him. 

GuRTH  stoijs  the  blow. 
I  ever  hated  monks. 

Margot.  I  am  but  a  voice 

Among  you  :  murder,  martyr  me  if  ye 

will  — 
Harold.    Thanks,   Gurth !     The  sim- 
ple, silent,  honest  man 
Is  worth  a  world  of  tonguesters.     {To 

Margot.)    Get  thee  gone  ! 
He  means  the  thing  he  says.     See  him 

out  safe. 
Leofwin.    He  hath  blown  himself  as 

red  as  fire  with  curses. 
An   honest   fool !      Follow  me,   honest 

fool. 
But  if  thou  blurt  thy  curse  among  our 

folk, 
I  know  not  —  I  may  give  that  egg-bald 

head 
The  tap  that  silences. 

Harold.  See  him  out  safe. 

[Exevnt  Leofwin  and  Margot. 

Gurth.    Thou   hast   lost   thine    even 

temper,   brother  Harold  ! 
Harold.    Gurth,  when  I  past  by  Wal- 

tham,  my  foundation 
For  men  who  serve  the  neighbor,  not 

themselves, 
I   cast  me  down  prone,  praying ;  and, 

when  I  rose. 
They  told  me  that  the  Holy  Rood  had 

lean'd 
And   bow'd   above   me ;   whether    that 

which  held  it 
Had  weaken'd,  and  the  Rood  itself  were 

bound 
To  that  necessity  which  binds  us  down  ; 
Whether  it  bow'd  at  all  but  in   their 

fancy  ; 
Or  if  it  bow'd,  whether  it  symboH'd  ruin 
Or  glory,  who  shall  tell  ?  but  they  were 

sad. 
And  somewhat  sadden'd  me. 

Gurtli.  Yet  if  a  fear, 

Or  shadow  of  a  fear,  lest  the  strange 

Saints 
By   whom   thou   swarest   should    have 

power  to  balk 
Thy  puissance  in  this  fight  with  him, 

who  made 
And   heard    thee    swear  —  brother — 1 

have  not  sworn  — 


HAROLD. 


565 


If  the  king  fall,  may  not  the  kingdom 

fall? 
But  if  I  fall,  I  fall,  and  thou  art  king  ; 
And  if  I  win,  I  win,  and  thou  art  king  ; 
Draw    thou    to    London,    there    make 

strength  to  breast 
Whatever  chance,  but  leave  this  day  to 

me. 
Leofwin   {entering).    And   waste    the 

land  about  thee  as  thou  goe.st, 
And  be  thy  hand  as  winter  on  the  field. 
To  leave  the  foe  no  forage. 

Harold.  Noble  Gurth ! 

Best  son  of  Godwin  !     If  1  fall,  I  fall  — 
The  doom  of  God  !     How  shovdd  the 

people  fight 
When  the  king  flies  ?     And,   Leofwin, 

art  thou  mad? 
How  should  the  King  of  England  waste 

the  fields 
Of    England,    his    own    people  ?  —  No 

glance  yet 
Of  the   Northumbrian   helmet   on   the 

heath  ? 
Leofwin.    No,   but  a  shoal  of  wives 

upon  the  heath. 
And  some  one  saw  thy  willy-nilly  nun 
Vying  a  tress  against  our  golden  fern. 
Harold.    Vying  a  tear  with  our  cold 

dews,  a  sigh 
With  these  low-moaning  heavens.     Let 

her  be  fetcli'd. 
We  have  parted  from  our  wife  without 

reproach, 
Tho'  we  have  dived  thro'  all  her  prac- 
tices ; 
And  that  is  well. 

Leofwin.  I  saw  her  even  now  : 

She  hath  not  left  us. 

Harold.  Nought  of  Morcar  then  ? 

Gurth.    Nor  seen,  nor  heard  ;  thine, 

William's  or  his  own 
As  wind  blows,  or  tide  flows  :  belike  he 

watches, 
If  this  war-storm  in  one  of  its  rough 

rolls 
Wash  up  that  old  crown  of  Northum- 
berland. 
Harold.    1  married  her  for  Morcar  — 

a  sin  against 
The  truth  of  love.     Evil  for  good,  it 

seems, 
Is  oft  as  childless  of  the  good  as  evil 
For  evil. 

Leofioin.    Good  for  good  hath  borne 

at  times 
A  bastard  false  as  Williaiu. 


Harold.  Ay,  if  Wisdom 

Pair'd  nor  with  Good.      Rut  1  am  some- 
what worn, 
A  snatch  of  sleep  were  like  the  peace 

of  God. 
Gurth,  Leofwin,  go  once  more  about  the 

hill  — 
What  did  the  dead  man  call  it  —  San- 

guelac, 
The  Lke  of  blood  ? 

Leofwin.    A  lake  that  dips  in  William 
As  well  as  Harold. 

Harold.      Like  enough.     I  have  seen 
The   trenches   dug,    the    palisades    up- 

rear'd 
And  wattled  thick  with  ash  and  willow- 
wands  ; 
Yea,    wrought    at    them    myself.      Go 

round  once  more  ; 
See  all  be  sound  and  whole.     No  Nor- 
man horse 
Can  shatter  England,   standing   shield 

by  shield  ; 
Tell  that  again  to  all. 

Gurth.  I  w  ill,  good  brother. 

Harold.    Our    guardsTuan    hath   but 
toil'd  his  hand  and  foot, 
1   hand,  foot,   heart  and  head.     Some 
wine  ! 
One  'pours  wine  into  a  goblet,  which 
he  hands  to  Harold. 
Too  much  ! 
What  ?  we  must  use  our  battle-axe  to- 
day. 
Our  guardsmen  have  slept  well,  since 
we  came  in  ? 
Leofwin.   Ay,  slept  and  snored.    Your 
second-sighted  man 
That  scared  the  dying  conscience  of  the 

king, 
Misheard  their  snores  for  groans.    Thej 

are  up  again, 
And  chanting  that  old  song  of  Brunan 

burg 
Where  England  conquer'd. 

Harold.    That  is  well.    The  Norman 
What  is  he  doing  ? 

Leofvnn.         Praying  for  Normandy  ; 
Our  scouts   have   heard   the   tinkle   of 
their  bells. 
Harold.    And    our    old    songs     are 
prayers  for  England  too  ! 
But  by  all  Saints  — 

Leofwin.         Barring  the  Norman  ! 
Harold.  Nay, 

Were  the  great  trumpet  blowing  dooms- 
day dawn. 


566 


HAROLD. 


i  needs  must  rest.     Call  when  the  Nor- 
man moves  — 

[Exeunt  all  but  Harold. 
No  horse  — •  thousands  of  horses  —  our 

shield  wall  — 
Wall  —  break   it   not  —  break    not  — 

break  —  [Sleeps. 

Vision   of  Edivard.    Son    Harold,    I 

thy  king,  who  came  before 
To  tell  thee  thou  shouldst  win  at  Stam- 
ford-bridge, 
Come  yet  once  more,  from  where  I  am 

at  peace, 
Because  I  loved  thee  in  my  mortal  day, 
To  tell  thee  thou  shalt  die  on  Senlac 

hill  — 
Sanguelac  ! 

Vision  of  JVulfnoth.    0  brother,  from 

my  ghastly  oubliette 
I  send  my  voice  across  the  narrow  seas  — 
No  more,  no  more,  dear  brother,  never- 
more — 
Sanguelac  ! 

Vision   of  Tosthf.    0   brother,    most 

unbrotherlike  to  me. 
Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in 

my  life, 
I  give  my  voice  against  thee  from  the 

grave  — 
Sanguelac  ! 

Vision  of  Norman  Saints.    0  hapless 

Harold  !  King  but  for  an  hour  ! 
Thou    swarest    falsely   by   our   blessed 

bones. 
We  give  our  voice  against  thee  out  of 

heaven ! 
Sanguelac  !    Sanguelac  !      The    arrow ! 

the  arrow  ! 
Harold   {starting    ^ip,    battle-axe    in 

hand).    Away ! 
My    battle-axe    against    your    voices. 

Peace  ! 
The  king's  last  word — "the  arrow!" 

I  shall  die  — 
I  die  for  England  then,  who  lived  for 

England  — 
What  nobler  ?  men  must  die. 
1  cannot  fall  into  a  falser  world  — 
I    have  done  no  man  wrong.     Tostig, 

poor  brother. 
Art  thou  so  anger'd  ? 
Fain  had  I  kept  thine  earldom  in  thy 

hands 
Save  for  thy  wild  and  violent  will  that 

wrench'd 
All  hearts  of  freemen  from  thee.    I  could 

do 


No  other  than  this  way  advise  the  king 
Against   the   race   of    Godwin.       Is   it 

possible 
That   mortal   men    should    bear    their 

earthly  heats 
Into  yon  bloodless  world,  and  threaten 

us  thence 
Uuschool'd  of  Death  ?    Thus  then  thou 

art  revenged  — 
I  left  our  England  naked  to  the  South 
To  meet  thee  in  the  North.     The  Norse^ 

man's  raid 
Hath  helpt  the  Norman,  and  the  race 

of  Godwin 
Hath  ruin'd  Godwiu.    No  —  our  waking 

thoughts 
Suffer  a  stormless  shipwreck  in  the  pools 
Of  sullen  slumber,  and  arise  again 
Disjointed  :  only  dreams  —  where  mine 

own  self 
Takes  part  against  myself  !     Why  ?  for 

a  spark 
Of   self-disdain   born    in    me   when   I 

sware 
Falsely  to  him,  the  falser  Norman,  over 
His  gilded  ark  of  mummy-saints,   by 

whom 
I  knew  not  that  I  sware,  —  not  for  my- 
self— 
For  England  —  yet  not  wholly  — 

Enter  Edith. 

Edith,  Edith, 
Get  thou  into  thy  cloister  as  the  king 
Will'd  it  :    be  safe  :   the   perjury-mon- 

gering  Count 
Hath  made  too  good  an  use  of  Holy 

Church 
To  break  her  close  !     There  the  great 

God  of  truth 
Fill   all  thine  hours  with  peace  !  —  A 

lying  devil 
Hath  liaunted   me  —  mine   oath  —  my 

wife  —  I  fain 
Had  made  my  marriage  not  a  lie  ;  I 

could  not : 
Thou  art  my  bride  !  and  thou  in  after 

years 
Praying  perchance  for  this  poor  soul  Ox 

mine 
In   cold,    white    cells    beneath   an  icy 

moon  — 
This   memory  to  thee! — and   this  to 

England, 
My  bgaoy  of  war  against  the  Pope 
From  child  to  child,  from  Pope  to  Pope, 

from  age  to  age, 


HAROLD. 


567 


Till  the  sea  wash  her  level  with  her 

shores, 
Or  till  the  Pope  be  Christ's. 

£?ti'er  Aldwyth. 

Aldioyth  (to  Edith).   Away  from  him  ! 
Edith.    I  will ...  1  have  not  spoken 
to  the  king 
One  word  ;  and  one  I  must.     Farewell ! 

[Going. 
Harold.  N  ot  yet. 

Stav. 
Edith.    To  what  use  ? 
Harold.    The   king  commands  thee, 
woman  ! 

{To  Aldwyth.) 
Have  thy  two  brethren  sent  their  forces 
in? 
Aldwyth.    Nay,  I  fear  not. 
Harold.    Then   there 's  no   force    in 
thee  ! 
Thou  didst  possess  thyself  of  Edward's 

ear 
To  part  me  from   the  woman  that   I 

loved ! 
Thou  didst  arouse  the  fierce  Northum- 
brians ! 
Thou  hast  been  false  to  England  and  to 

me  ! 
As  ...  in  some  sort ...  I  have  been  false 

to  thee. 
Leave  me.     No  more  —  Pardon  on  both 
sides  —  Go  ! 
Aldivijth.   Alas,  my  lord,  I  loved  thee. 
Harold.  With  a  love 

Pasfing  thy  love  for  Griffyth  !  where- 
fore now 
Obey  mv  first  and  last  commandment. 
Go! 
Aldu-yfh.   0  Harold !  husband  !  Sliall 

we  meet  again  ? 
Harold.    After  the  battle  —  after  the 

battle.     Go. 
Aldivyth.    I   go.      (Aside.)      That   I 
could  stab  her  standing  there  ! 
[Exit  Aldwyth. 
Edith.    Alas,  my  lord,  she  loved  thee. 
Harold.  Never  !  never  ! 

Edith.    I  saw  it  in  her  eyes  ! 
Harold.  I  see  it  in  thine. 

And  not  on  thee  —  nor  England  —  fall 
God's  doom  ! 
Edith.    On  thee  ?  on  me.     And  thou 
art  England  !     Alfred 
Was  England.     Ethelred  was  nothing. 

England 
Is  but  her  king,  and  thou  art  Harold  ! 


Harold.  Edith, 

The  sign  in  heaven  —  the  sudden  blast 

at  sea  — 
My  fatal  oath  —  the  dead  Saints  —  the 

dark  dreams  — 
The  Pojie's  Anathema  —  the  Holy  5000* 
That  bow'd  to  me  at  Waltham  —  Edith, 

if 
I,  the  last  English  King  of  England  — 
Edith.  No, 

First  of  a  line  that  coming  from  the 

people. 
And  chosen  b}^  the  people  — 

Harold.  And  fighting  for 

And  dying  for  the  people  — 

Edith.  Living  !  living  ! 

Harold.    Yea  so,   good  cheer  !    thou 
art  Harold,  I  am  Edith  ! 
Look  not  thus  wan  ! 

Edith.         AVhat  matters  how  I  look  ? 
Have  we  not  broken  Wales  and  Norse- 
land  ?  slain, 
Whose  life  was  all  one  battle,  incarnate 

war, 
Their  giant-king,  a  mightier  man-in-arms 
Than  William. 

Harold.    Ay,   my  girl,   no   tricks  in 
him  — 
No  bastard  he  !  when  all  was  lost,  he 

yell'd, 
And  bit  his  sliield,  and  dash'd  it  on  the 

ground. 
And  swaying  histwo-handed  sword  about 

him, 
Two  deaths  at  every  swing,  ran  in  upon 

us 
And  died  so,  and  I  loved  him  as  I  hate 
This  liar  who  made  me  liar.     If  Hate 

can  kill, 
And   Loathing  wield  a  Saxon  battle- 
axe — 
Edith.    Waste  not  thy  might  before 

the  battle  ! 
Harold.    And  thou  must  hence.    Sti- 
gand  will  see  thee  safe, 
And  so  —  Farewell. 

[He  is  going,  but  turns  back. 
The  ring  thou  darest  not  wear, 
I  have  had  it  fashion'd,  see,  to  meet  my 
hand. 
[Harold  shoivs  the  ring  which  is  on 
his  finger. 
Farewell  ! 

[He  is  going,  but  turns  back  again, 
1  am  dead  as  Death  this  day  to  aught 

of  earth's 
Save  William's  death  or  mine. 


668 


HAROLD. 


Edith.  Thy  death  !  —  to-day  ! 

^  it  not  thy  birthday  ? 

Harold.  Ay,  that  happy  day  ! 

A  birthday  welcome  !  happy  days  and 

many  ! 
One  —  this  !  [_Tliey  embrace. 

Look,  I  will  bear  thy  blessing  into  the 

battle 
And  front  the  doom  of  God. 

Norman  Cries  {heard  in  the  distance). 
Ha  Ron  !  Ha  Rou  ! 

Enter  GuRTH. 

Gurth.    The  Norman  moves  ! 
Harold.  Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 

[Exeunt  Harold  and  Gurth. 

Enter  Stigand. 

Stigand.    Our  Church  in  arms  —  the 
lamb  the  lion  — not 
Spear  into  pruning-hook  —  the  counter 

way  — 
Cowl,    helm  ;    and   crozier,    battle-axe. 

Abbot  Alfwig, 
Leofric,  and   all   the   monks  of  Peter- 

boro' 
Strike  for  the  king  ;  bnt  1,  old  wretch, 

old  Stigand, 
With  hands  too  limp  to  brandish  iron  — 

and  yet 
I  have  a  power  —  would  Harold  ask  me 

for  it  — 
I  have  a  power. 
Edith.  What  power,  holy  father  ? 

Stigand.    Power  now  from  Harold  to 
command  thee  hence 
And  see  thee  safe  from  Senlac. 
Edith.  I  remain  ! 

Stigand.    Yea,   so   will    I,   daughter, 
until  I  find 
Which  way  the  battle  balance.     I  can 

see  it 
From  where  we  stand  :  and,  live  or  die, 

I  would 
I  were  among  them  ! 
Canons  from  Waltham  {singing  without). 
Salva  patriam 
Saucte  Pater, 
Salva  Fill, 
Salva  Spiritus, 
Salva  patriam, 
Sanota  Mater.* 

Edith.    Are  those  the  blessed  angels 

quiring,  father  ? 
Stigand.    No,  daughter,  but  the  canons 

out  of  Waltham, 

The  a  throughout  these  hymns  should  be 
sounded  broad,  as  in  "  father. " 


The  king's  foundation,  that  have  foUow'd 
him. 
Edith.    0  God  of  battles,  make  their 
wall  of  shields 
Firm  as  thy  clifls,  strengthen  their  pali- 
sades ! 
What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 

Stigand.  The  Norman  arrow  1 

Edith.    Look  out  upon  the  battle  —  is 

he  safe  ? 
Stigand.    The  king  of  England  standc 
between  his  banners. 
He  glitters    on    the   crowning  of   the 

hill. 
God  save  King  Harold  ! 

Edith.  —  chosen  by  his  people, 

And  fighting  for  his  people  ! 

Stigand.  There  is  one 

Come  as  Goliath  came  of  yore  —  he  flings 
His  brand  in  air  and  catches  it  again  ; 
He  is  chanting  some  old  war-song. 

Edith.  And  no  David 

To  meet  him  ? 

Stigand.    Ay,  there  springs  a  Saxon 
on  him. 
Falls  —  and  another  falls. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.    Lo  !   our  good  Gurth  hath 

smitten  him  to  the  death. 
Edith.    So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 

Harold  ! 
Canons  (singing). 

Hostis  in  Angllam 

Ruit  praedator, 
lUorum,  domine. 

Scutum  scindatur  I 
Hostis  per  Angliae 
Plagas  Ijacchatur ; 
Casa  crematur, 
Pastor  fugatur 
Grex  trucidatuT  — 

Stigand.    Illos,  trucida,  Domine. 
Edith.  Ay,  good  father. 

Canons  {singing). 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

English  Cries.  Harold  and  Holy  Cross  1 

Out !  out ! 
Stigand.  Our  javelins 

Answer  their  arrows.     AH  the  Norman 

foot 
Are  storming  up  the  hill.     The  range 

of  knights 
Sit,   each  a   statue   on   his   horse,   and 
wait. 
English  Cries.    Harold  and  God  Al- 
mighty ! 
Norman  Cries.    Ha  Rou  !  Ha  Eoii ! 


HAEOLD. 


569 


Canons  {singing). 

Eques  cum  pedite 

Prsepediatur  1 
Illoruni  in  lacrymas 

Cruor  fundatur I 
Peieant,  pereant, 

Anglia  precatur. 

Stigand.    Look,  daugliter,  look. 
Edith.  Nay,  father,  look  for  mel 

Stigand.    Our  axes  lighten  with  a  sin- 
gle flash 
ALout    the    summit    of    the    hill,   and 

heads 
And  arms  are  sliver'd  off  and  splinter'd 

by 

Their  lightning  —  and   they   fly  —  the 
Nomian  flies. 
Edith.    Stigand,    0   father,   have   we 

won  the  day  ? 
Stigand.    2s  o,  daughter,  no — they  fall 
behind  the  horse  — 
Their  horses  are  thronging  to  the  barri- 
cades ; 
I  see  the  gonfalon  of  Holy  Peter 
Floating  aliove  their  helmets  —  ha  !  he 
is  down  ! 
Edith.    He  down  !     Who  down  ? 
Stigand.    The  Norman  Count  is  down. 
Edith.    So  perish  all  the  enemies  of 

England  ! 
Stigand.     No,  no,  he  hath  risen  again 

—  he  bares  his  face  — 

-Shouts  something  —  he  points  onward 

—  all  their  horse 

Swallow  the  hill  locu.st-like,  swarming 

up. 
Edith.    0  God  of  battles,  make  his 

battle-axe  keen 
As  thine   own   sharp-dividing  justice, 

heavy 
As  thine  own  bolts  that  fall  on  crimeful 

heads 
Charged   with    the   weight    of    heaven 

wherefrom  they  fall  ! 
Canons  (singing). 

Jacta  tonitma 

Deus  bellator ! 
Surgas  e  lenebris, 

Sis  vindit-atoi- ! 
Fulmiiia,  fulmiiia 

Deus  vastator ! 

Edith.    0  God   of  battles,    they   are 

three  to  one, 
Make  thou   one  man   as  three  to  roll 

them  down  ! 
Canons  (singing). 

Equus  cum  equite 
Dejiciatu'- 1 


Acies,  Acies 

Proua  sternatur  1 
Uloriim  lanceas 

Frange  Creator  ! 

Stigand.  Yea,  j'ea,  for  how  their  lances 

snap  and  shiver 
Against  the  shifting  blaze  of  Harold's 

axe  ! 
War-woodman  of  old  Wooden,  how  he 

fells 
The    mortal    copse   of    faces !    There  i 

And  there  ! 
The  horse  and  horseman  cannot  meet  the 

shield. 
The  blow  that  brain  s  the  horseman  cleaves 

the  horse. 
The  horse  and  horseman  roll  along  the 

hill, 
They  fly  once  more,  they  fly,  the  Nor- 
man flies  ! 

Equus  cum  equite 
Praecipitatur. 

Edith.    0  God,  the  God  of  truth  hath 
heard  my  cry. 
Follow  them,  follow  them,  drive  them  to 
the  sea  ! 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur  I 

Stigand.    Truth  !  no  ;  a  li'; ;  a  trick, 
a  Norman  trick  ! 
They  turn  on  the  pursuer,  horse  against 

foot. 
They  murder  all  that  follow. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us ! 

Stigand.    Hot-headed  fools  —  to  burst 
the  wall  of  shields  ! 
They  have  broken  the  commandment  of 
the  king ! 
Edith.    His  oath  was  broken  —  0  holy 
Norman  Saints, 
Ye  that  are  now  of  heaven,  and  see  be- 
yond 
Your  Norman  shrines,  pardon  it,  par- 
don it, 
That  he   forsware    himself   for    all    he 

loved. 
Me,  me   and  all  !     Look  out  upon  the 
battle  ! 
Stigand.    They  press  again  upon  the 
barricades. 
My  sight  is  eagle,    but  the   strife  so 

thick  — 
This  is  the  hottest  of  it :  hold,  ash  !  hold, 
willow  ! 
English  Cries.    Out,  out ! 
Knnvan  Crirs.  Ha  Rou  I 


570 


HAROLD. 


Stigcmd.    Ha  !  Gurth  hath  leapt  upon 
him 
And  slain  him  :  he  hath  fallen. 

Edith.  And  I  am  heard. 

Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest  !   fallen, 

fallen  ! 

Sligand.    No,     no,     his    horse  —  he 

mounts  another  —  wields 

His  war-club,  dashes  it  on  Gurth,  and 

Gurth, 
Our  noble  Gurth,  is  down  ! 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigcmd.    And  Leofwin  is  down  ! 
Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

0  Thou  that  knowest,  let  not  my  strong 

prayer 
Be  weaken'd  in  thy  sight,  because  I  love 
The  husband  of  another  ! 

Norman  Cries.       Ha  Rou  !  Ha  Rou  ! 
Edith.    I  do  not  hear  our  English  war- 
cry. 
Stigand.     No. 
Edith.    Look  out  upon  the  battle  —  is 

he  safe  ? 
Stignnd.    He  stands  between  the  ban- 
ners with  the  dead 
So   piled    about    him    he    can    hai'dly 
move. 
Edith   {takes  up  the  loar-cry).    Out  ! 

out  ! 
Norman  Cries.    Ha  Rou  ! 
Edith  {cries  out).    Harold  and    Holy 

Cross  ! 
Norman  Cries.    Ha  Rou  !  Ha  Rou  ! 
Edith.    What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 
Stigand.    The  Norman  sends  his  ar- 
rows up  to  Heaven, 
Xhey  fall  on  those  within  the  palisade  ! 
Edith.    Look  out  upon  the  hill — is 

Hai-old  there  ? 
Stigand.     Sanguelac  —  Sanguelac  — 
the  arrow  —  the  arrow  !  —  away  ! 

SCENE  n.  —  FIELD  OP  THE  DEAD. 
NIGHT. 

Aldwyth  a7id  Edith. 

Aldwyth.    0  Edith,  art  thou  here  ?    0 

Harold,  Harold  — 
Our  Harold  —  we  shall  never  see  him 

more. 
Edith.    For  there  was  moi  e  than  sister 

in  my  kiss, 
And  so  the  taints  were  wroth.    I  cannot 

love  them. 
For  they  are  Norman  saints  —  and  yet 

I  should  — 


They  are  so  much  holier  than  their  har- 
lot's son 
With    whom   they   play'd    their  game 
against  the  king  ! 
AJdivylh.    The  king  is  slain,  the  king. 

dom  overthrown  ! 
Edith.    No  matter  ! 
Aldwyth.    How   no    matter,    Harold 
slain  ? — 
I   cannot   find  his  body.     0   help   me 
thou  ! 

0  Edith,   if    I   ever  wrought   against 

thee. 
Forgive  me  thou,  and  help  me  here  ! 
Edith.  No  matter  ! 

Aldioyth.    Not  help  me,  nor  forgive 

me  ? 
Edith.         So  thou  saidest. 
Aldwyth.    I  say  it  now,  forgive  me  ! 
Edith.  Cross  me  not ! 

1  am  seeking  one  who  wedded  me  in 

secret. 
Whisper  !     God's  angels  only  know  it. 

Ha! 
Wliat   art  thou  doing  here  among  the 

dead  ? 
They  are  stripping  the  dead  bodies  naked 

yonder. 
And  thou  art  come  to  rob  them  of  their 
rings  ! 
Aldioyih.    0  Edith,  Edith,  I  have  lost 
both  crown 
And  husband. 

Edith.  So  have  I. 

Aldivyth.  I  tell  thee,  girl, 

[  am  seeking  my  dead  Harold. 

Edith.  And  I  mine  ! 

The  Holy  Father  strangled  him  with  a 

hair 
Of  Peter,  and  his  brother  Tostig  helpt  ; 
The  wicked  sister  clapt  her  hands  and 

lauglit  ; 
Then  all  the  dead  fell  on  him. 

Aldwyth.  Edith,  Edith  — 

Edith.    What  was  he  like,  this  hus- 
band ?  like  to  thee  ? 
Call  not  for  help  from  me.     I  knew  him 

not. 
He  lies  not  here  :  not  close  beside  the 

standard. 
Here  fell  the  truest,  manliest  hearts  of 

England. 
Go  further  hence  and  find  him. 

Aldivyth.  She  is  crazed  1 

Edith.    That  doth  not  matter  either. 
Lower  the  light. 
He  must  be  here. 


HAROLD. 


571 


Emter  two  Canojis,  Osgod  and  Athelric, 
vrith  torches.     They  turn  over  the  dead 
bodies  and  examine  them  as  they  pass. 
Osgod.    I  think  that  this  is  Thurkill. 
Athelric.    More  likely  Godric. 
Ostjod.  1  am  sure  this  body 

Is  Alfwig,  the  king's  uncle. 

Atlielric.  So  it  is  ! 

No,  no  —  brave  Gurth,  cue  gash  from 
brow  to  knee  ! 
Osgod.    And  here  is  Leofwin. 
Edith.  And  here  is  He  ! 

Aldwyth.    Harold  ?     Oh  no  —  nay,  if 
it  were  —  my  God, 
They  have  so  maim'd  and  martyr'd  all 

his  face 
There  is  no  man  can  swear  to  him. 

Edith.  But  one  woman  ! 

Look  you,  we  never  mean  to  part  again. 
I  have  found  him,  I  am  happy. 
Was  there  not  some  one  ask'd  me  for 

forgiveness  ? 
I  yield  it  freely,  being  the  true  wife 
Of  this  dead  King,  who  never  bore  re- 
venge. 
Enter   Count    William    and   William 
Malet. 
William.     Who    be    these    women  ? 

And  what'  body  is  this  ? 
Edith.    Harold,  thy  better  ! 
William.        Ay,  and  what  art  thou  ? 
Edith.    His  wife  ! 

Malet.    Not  true,  my  girl,  here  is  the 

Queen  !    [Pointing  out  Avt)VfYT:ii. 

William  [to  Aldwyth).    Wast  thou 

his  Queen  ? 
Aldwyth.    I  was  the  Queen  of  Wales. 
William.     Why   then    of    England. 
Madam,  fear  us  not. 
{To  Malet.) 
Knowest  thou  this  other  ? 

Malet.  When  I  visited  England, 

Some  held  she  was  his  wife  in  secret  — 

some  — 
Well  —  some  believed  she  was  his  para- 
mour. 
Edith.    Norman,  thou  liest !  liars  all 
of  you. 
Your  Saints  and  all !     /  am  his  wife  ! 

and  she  — 
For  look,  our  marriage  ring  ! 

[She  draws  it  off  the  finger  of  Harold. 

I  lost  it  somehow  — 

I  lost  it,  playing  with  it  when  I  was 

wild. 
That  bred  the  doubt :  but  I  am  wiser 
now ,  .  . 


I  am  too  wise  .  .  .  Will  none  among  you 

all 
Bear  me  true  witness  —  only  for   this 

once  — 
That  I  have  found  it  here  again  ? 

[She  puts  it  on. 
And  thou 
Thy  wife  am  I  for  ever  and  evermore. 

[Falls  on  the  body  and  dies. 
William.    Death  !  —  and   enough   of 

death  for  this  one  day. 
The  day  of  St.  Calixtus,  and  the  day, 
My  day,  when  I  was  born. 

Malet.  And  this  dead  king's. 

Who,  king  or  not,  hath  kinglike  fought 

and  fallen. 
His  birthday,  too.     It  seems  but  yester- 

even 
1  held  it  with  him  in  his  English  halls. 
His  day,  with  all  his  rooftree  ringing 

"Harold," 
Before  he  fell  into  the  snare  of  Guy ; 
When  all  men  counted  Harold  would 

be  king. 
And  Harold  was  most  happy. 

William.  Thou  art  half  English. 

Take  them  away ! 

JMalet,  I  vow  to  build  a  church  to  God 
Here  on  this  hill  of  battle  ;  let  our  high 

altar 
Stand    where    their    standard    fell .  .  . 

where  these  two  lie. 
Take  them  away,  I  do  not  love  to  see 

them. 
Pluck  the  dead  woman  off  the  dead  man, 

Malet  ! 
Malet.    Faster  than  ivy.    Must  I  hack 

her  arms  off  ? 
How  shall  I  part  them  ? 

William.    Leave  them.      Let  them 

be! 
Bury  him  and  his  paramour  together. 
He  that  was  false  in  oath  to  me,  it  seems 
Was   false  to  his  ovra  wife.     We  will 

not  give  him 
A  Christian  burial :  yet  he  was  a  war- 
rior. 
And     wise,     yea    truthful,     till     that 

blighted  vow 
Which  God  avenged  to-day. 
Wrap  them  together  in  a  purple  cloak 
And  lay  them  both  upon  the  waste  sea- 
shore 
At  Hastings,  there  to  guard  the  land  for 

which 
He  did  forswear  himself  —  a  warrior  — 

ay, 


572 


HAEOLD, 


And  but  that  Holy  Peter  fought  for  us, 
And  that  the  false  Northumbrian  held 

aloof, 
And  save  for  that  chance  arrow  which 

the  Saints 
Sharpen'd  and  sent  against  him  —  who 

can  tell  ?  — 
Three  horses  had  I  slain  beneath  me  : 

twice 
I  thought  that  all  was  lost.     Since  I 

knew  battle. 
And  that  was  from  my  boyhood,  never 

yet  — 
No,   by  the  splendor  of  God  —  have  I 

fought  men 
Like  Harold  and  his  brethren,  and  his 

guard 
Of  English.     Every  man  about  his  king 
Fell  where  he  stood.     They  loved  him  : 

and,  pray  God 


My   Normans  may  but  move  as  true 

with  me 
To  the  door  of  death.     Of  one  self-stock 

at  first, 
Make  them  again  one  people — Norman, 

English  ; 
And  English,  Norman ; — we  should  have 

a  hand 
To  gi-asp  the  world  with,  and  a  foot  to 

stamp  it .  .  . 
Flat.    Praise  the  Saints.    It  is  over.    No 

more  blood ! 
I  am  King  of  England,  so  they  thwart 

me  not. 
And  I  will  rule  according  to  their  laws. 

(To  Aldwyth.) 
Madam,  we  will  entreat  thee  with  all 

honor. 
Aldwyth.    My   punishment  is    more 

than  I  can  bear. 


THE  REVENGE. 


573 


THE   REVENGE. 


A   BALLAD   OF  THE   FLEET,    159L 


At  Flores  in    the  Azores  Sir  Richard 

Grenville  lay, 
And  a  pinnace,  like  a  flutter'd  bird,  came 

flying  from  far  away  : 
"  Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea  !  we  have 

sighted  fifty-three  ! " 
Then    sware    Lord    Thomas    Howard : 

"  'Fore  God  I  am  no  coward  ! 
But  I  cannot  meet  tliem  here,  for  my 

ships  are  out  of  gear. 
And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.     I  must 

fly,  but  follow  quick. 
We  are  six  ships  of  the  line  ;  can  we  fight 

with  fifty-three  ? " 


Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville:  "I 
know  you  are  no  coward; 

You  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with 
them  again. 

But  I  've  ninety  men  and  more  that  are 
lying  sick  ashore. 

I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I 
left  them,  my  Lord  Howard, 

To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devil- 
doms of  Spain." 


So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships 

of  war  that  day, 
Till  he  melted  like  a  cloud  in  the  silent 

summer  heaven  ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick 

men  from  the  land 
Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  , 

below  ; 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 
And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that 

they  were  not  left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the 

glory  of  the  Lord. 


He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work 

the  ship  and  to  fight. 
And  he  sail'd  away  from  Flores  till  the 

Spaniard  came  in  sight. 
With  his  liuge  sea-castles  heaving  upon 

the  weather  bow. 
"  Shall  we  fight  or  .shall  we  fly  ? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  let  us  know. 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die  ! 
There  '11  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time 

the  sun  be  set." 
And  Sir  Richard  said  again  :  "We  be  all 

good  Englishmen. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the 

children  of  the  devil. 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don 

or  devil  yet." 


Sir  Richard  spoke,  and  he  laugh'd,  and 

we  roared  a  hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  "  Revenge  "  ran  on  shser  into 

the  heart  of  the  foe. 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and 

her  ninety  sick  below  ; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and 

half  to  the  left  were  seen, 
Andthe  little  "  Revenge"  ran  on  thro'  the 

long  sea-lane  between. 


Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down 

from  their  decks  and  laugh'd. 
Thousands  of  their  .seamen  made  mock 

at  the  mad  little  craft 
Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 
By  their  mountain-like  "San  Philip" 

that,  of  fifteen  hundred  tons. 
And  up-shadowing  high  above  ns  with 

her  yawning  tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we 
■  stay'd. 


574 


THE   REVENGE. 


VII. 

And  while  now  the  great  "San  Philip" 
hung  above  us  like  a  cloud 

Whence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 

Long  and  loud, 

Four  galleons  drew  away 

From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 

And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon 
the  starboard  lay. 

And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them 
all. 


But  anon  the  great  "San  Philip,"  she 

bethought  herself  and  went, 
Having  that  within  her  womb  that  had 

left  her  ill-cuntent ; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and 

they  fought  us  hand  to  hand, 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their 

pikes  aud  musqueteers. 
And  a  dozen  times  we  sliook  'em  otf  as  a 

dog  that  shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 


And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars 

came  out  far  over  the  summer  sea. 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of 

the  one  and  the  fifty-three. 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long, 

their  high-built  galleons  came, 
Shipaftership,  thewholenightlong,  with 

her  battle-thunder  and  flame  ; 
Shipaftership,  thewholenightlong,  drew 

back  with  her  dead  and  her  shame  ; 
For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shat- 

ter'd,  and  so  could  fight  us  no 

more  — 
God  of  battles,  vvas  ever  a  battle  like  this 

in  the  world  before  ? 


For  he  said,  "  Fight  on  !  fight  on  !  " 
Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck  ; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the 

summer  night  was  gone, 
With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had 

left  the  deck. 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing 

it  suddenly  dead. 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the 

-side  and  the  head, 
And  he  said,  "Fight  on !  fight  on  1 " 


XI. 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun 

smiled  out  far  over  the  summer  sea, 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides 

lay  round  us  all  in  a  ring  : 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  lor  they 

fear'd  that  we  still  could  sting. 
So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were 

slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  Life 
lu  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the 

desperate  strife  ; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were 

most  of  them  stark  and  cold. 
And  the  pikes  were  all  broken  or  bent, 

and  the  powder  was  all  of  it  spent ; 
And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying 

over  the  side  ; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 
"  We  have  fought  such  a  fight  for  a  day 

and  a  night 
As  may  never  be  fought  again  ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  I 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die  —  does  it  matter  when  ? 
Sink  me  the  ship.  Master  Gunner  —  sink 

her,  split  her  in  twain  ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the 

hands  of  Spain  !" 


And  the  gunner  said,  "  Ay,  ay,"  but  the 

seamen  made  reply  : 
"  We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we 

yield,  to  let  us  go  ; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again,  and  to  strike 

another  blow." 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they 

yielded  to  the  foe. 


And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their 

flagship  bore  him  then. 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir 

Richard  caught  at  last. 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with 

their  courtly  foreign  grace  ; 
But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he 

cried  : 


THE  REVENGE. 


576 


"  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like 
a  valiant  man  and  true  ; 

J  have  onl}'  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is 
bound  to  do  : 

With  a  joyful  spirit  I,  Sir  Richard  Gren- 
ville,  die  !  " 

Andhe  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 


And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  had  been 

i-o  valiant  and  true, 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of 

Spain  so  cheap. 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and 

his  English  few  ; 
Was  he  devil  or  man  ?     He  was  devil  for 

aught  they  knew. 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honor  down 

into  the  deep, 


And  they  mann'd  the  "  Revenge"  with 

a  swarthier  alien  crew. 
And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and 

long'd  for  her  own  ; 
When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had 

ruin'd  awoke  from  sleep, 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the 

weather  to  moan. 
And  or  ever  that  evening  ended  a  great 

gale  blew. 
And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised 

by  an  earthquake  grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their 

sails  and  their  masts  and  their 

flags. 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the 

shot-shatter'd  navy  of  Siiain, 
And  the  little  "  Revenge  "  herself  went 

down  by  the  island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 


576 


THE    DEFENCE    OF  LUCKNOW. 


THE  DEFENCE  OF   LDCKNOW. 


DEDICATORY   POEM   TO   THE 
PRINCESS   ALICE. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that, 

which  lived 
True  life,  live  on  —  and  if  the  fatal  kiss. 
Born  of  true  life  and  love,  divorce  thee 

not 
From  earthly  love  and  life  —  if  what  we 

call 
The  spirit  flash  not  all  at  once  from  out 
This  shadow  into  Substance  —  then  per- 
haps 
The   mellow'd   murmur  of  the  jieople's 

praise 
From  thine  own  State,  and  all  our  breadth 

of  realm. 
Where  Love  and  Longing  dress  thy  deeds 

in  light. 
Ascends  to  thee  ;  and  this  March  morn 

that  sees 
Thy     Soldier-brother's    bridal    orange- 
bloom 
Break  thro'  the  yews  and  cypress  of  thy 

grave, 
And  thine  Imperial  mother  smile  again. 
May  send  one  ray  to  thee  !  and  who  can 

tell  — 
Thou  —  England's        England  -  loving 

daughter  —  thou 
Dying  so  English  thou  wouldst  have  her 

flag 
Borne  on  thycoffin  —  where  is  he  can 

swear 
But  that  some  broken  gleam  from  our 

poor  earth 
May  touch  thee,  while  remembeiing  thee. 

Hay 
At  thy  pale  feet  this  ballad  of  the  deeds 
Of  England,  and  her  banner  in  the  East  ? 


Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  0 

banner  of  Dritain,  hast  thou 
Floated  in  cont^uering  battle  or  flapt  to 

the  battle-cry  ! 
Never  witli  mightier  glory  than  when 

we  had  rear'd  thee  on  high 
Flying  at  toji  of  Oie  roofs  in  the  ghastly 

sief^e  of  Luckno'v  —  ^ 


Shot  thro'  the  staff"  or  the  halyard,  but 
ever  we  raised  thee  anew, 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  ban- 
ner of  England  blew. 


Frail  were  the  works  that  defended  the 

hold  that  we  held  with  our  lives  — 
Women  and  childrenamong  us,  God  help 

tliera,  our  children  and  wives  ! 
Hold  it  we  might  —  and  for  fifteen  days 

or  for  twenty  at  most. 
"  Never  surrender,   I  charge  you,    but 

every  man  die  at  his  post  !  " 
Voice  of  the  dead  whom  we  loved,  our 

Lawrence  the  best  of  the  brave  : 
Cold  were  his  brows  when  we  kiss'd  him 

—  we  laid  him  that  night  in  his 

grave. 
"  Every  man  die  at  his  ])ost  !  "  and  there 

hail'd  on  our  houses  and  lialls 
Death  from  their  rifle-bullets,  and  death 

from  their  cannon-balls. 
Death  in  our  innermost  chamber,  and 

death  at  our  slight  barricade. 
Death  while  we  stood  with  the  musket, 

and  death  wlule  we  stoopt  to  the 

spade. 
Death  to  the  dying,  and  wounds  to  the 

wounded,  for  often  there  fell 
Striking  the  hosjiital  wall,  crashing  thro' 

it,  their  shot  and  their  shell, 
Death  —  for  their  spies  were  among  us, 

their  marksmen  were  told  of  our 

best. 
So  that  the  brute  bullet  broke  thro'  the 

brain  that  could  think  for  the  i-est ; 
Bullets  would  sing  by  our  foreheads,  and 

bullets  would  rain  at  our  feet  — 
Fire  from  ten  thousand  at  once  of  the 

rebels  that  girdled  us  round  — 
Death  at  the  glimpse  of  a  finger  from 

over  the  breadth  of  a  street, 
Death  from  the  heiglits  of  themosqueand 

the  palace, anddeath  in  theground ! 
Mine  ?    yes,    a    mine  !      Countermine  ! 

down,  down  !  and  creep  thro'  the 

hole  ! 
Keep  the  revolver  in  hand  !     You  can 

hear  him —  the  murderous  mole. 


THE    DEFENCE    OF   LUGKNOW. 


577 


Quiet,  ah  !  quiet  —  wait  till  the  point 
of  the  pickaxe  be  thro'  ! 

Click  with  the  pick,  coming  nearer  and 
nearer  again  than  before  — 

Now  let  it  speak,  and  you  fire,  and  the 
dark  pioneer  is  no  more  ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  ban- 
ner of  England  blew. 


\y,  but  the  ibe  sprung  his  mine  many 
times,  and  it  chanced  on  a  day 

Soon  as  the  blast  of  that  underground 
thunderclap  echo'd  away. 

Dark  thro'  the  smoke  and  the  sulphur 
like  so  many  fiends  in  their  hell  — 

Cannon-shot,  niusket-shot,  volley  on  vol- 
ley, and  yell  upon  yell  — 

Fiercely  on  all  the  defences  our  myriad 
enemy  fell. 

What  have  they  done  ?  where  is  it  ? 
Out  yonder.     Guard  the  Redan  ! 

Storm  at  the  Water-gate  !  storm  at  the 
Bailey-gate  !  storm,  and  it  ran 

Surging  and  swaying  all  round  us,  as 
ocean  on  every  side 

Plunges  and  heaves  at  a  bank  that  is 
daily  drown'd  by  the  tide  — 

So  many  thousands  that  if  they  be  bold 
enough,  who  shall  escape  ? 

Kill  or  be  killM,  live  or  die,  they  shall 
know  we  aie  soldiers  and  men  ! 

Ready  !  take  aim  at  their  leaders  —  their 
massesaregapp'd  with  our  grape — 

Backward  they  reel  like  the  wave,  like 
the  wave  flinging  forward  again, 

Flying  and  foil'd  at  the  last  by  the  hand- 
ful they  could  not  subdue  ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


Handful  of  men  as  we  were,  we  were 
English  in  heart  and  in  limb. 

Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  race  to 
command,  to  obey,  to  endure. 

Each  of  us  fought  as  if  hope  for  the  gar- 
rison hung  but  on  him  ; 

Still  —  could  we  watch  at  all  points  ?  we 
were  every  day  fewer  and  fewer. 

There  was  a  whisper  among  us,  but  only 
a  whisper  that  jiast : 

"  Children  and  wives  —  if  the  tigers  leap 
into  the  fold  unawares  — 

Every  man  die  at  his  post  —  and  the  foe 
may  outlive  us  at  last  — 


Better  to  fall  by  the  hands  that  they  love, 
than  to  fall  into  theirs  !  " 

Roar  upon  roar  in  a  moment  two  mines 
by  the  enemy  sprung 

Clove  into  perilous  chasms  our  walls  and 
our  poor  palisades. 

Rifleman,  true  is  your  heart,  but  be  sure 
that  your  hand  be  as  true  ! 

Sharp  is  the  fire  of  assault,  better  aim'd 
are  your  flank  fusillades  — 

Twice  do  we  hurl  them  to  earth  from  the 
ladders  to  which  they  had  clung. 

Twice  from  the  ditch  where  tliey  shelter 
we  drive  them  with  hand-gre- 
nades ; 

And  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 
banner  of  England  blew. 


Then  on  another  wild  morning  another 

wild  earthquake  out-tore 
Clean  from  our  lines  of  defence  ten  or 

twelve  good  jiaces  or  more. 
Rifleman,  high  on  the  roof,  hidden  there 

from  the  light  of  the  sun  — 
One  has  leapt  up  on  the  breach,  crying 

out :   "  Follow  me,  follow  me  ! " — 
Mark  him  —  he  falls  !  then  another,  and 

him  too,  and  down  goes  he. 
Had  they  been  bold  enough  then,  who 

can  tell  but  the  traitors  had  won  ? 
Boardings  and  rafters  and  doors  —  an 

embrasure !    make    way   for    the 

Now  double-charge  it  with  grape  !    it  is 

charged  and  we  fire,  and  they  run. 
Praise  toour  Indian  brothers,  and  let  the 

dark  face  have  his  due  ! 
Thanks   to  the  kindly  dark  faces  who 

fought  with  us,  faithful  and  few, 
Fought  with  the  bravest  among  us,  and 

drove  them,  and  smote  them,  and 

slew. 
That  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our 

banner  in  India  blew. 


Men  will  forget  whac  we  suflfer  and  not 

what  we  do.     W^e  can  fight ; 
But  to  be  soldier  all  day  and  be  sentinel 

all  thro'  the  night  — 
Ever  the  mine  and  assault,  our  sallies, 

their  lying  alarms. 
Bugles  and  drums  in  the  darkness,  and 

shoutings  and  soundings  to  arms, 
Ever   the  labor  of  fifty  tlu.t  liad  to  be 

done  by  five. 


578 


THE    DEFENCE    OF    LUCKNOW. 


Ever  the  marvel  among  us  that  one 
should  he  left  alive, 

Ever  the  day  with  its  traitorous  death 
from  the  loopholes  around, 

Ever  the  night  with  its  coffinless  corpse 
to  be  laid  in  the  ground, 

Heat  like  the  mouth  of  a  hell,  or  a  del- 
uge of  cataract  skies. 

Stench  of  old  offal  decaying,  and  infinite 
torment  of  flies. 

Thoughts  of  the  breezes  of  May  blowing 
over  an  English  field. 

Cholera,  scurvy,  and  fever,  the  wound 
that  ivould  not  be  heal'd, 

Lopping  away  of  the  limb  by  the  pitiful- 
pitiless  knife,  — 

Torture  and  trouble  in  vain,  —  for  it 
never  could  save  us  a  life, 

Valor  of  delicate  women  who  tended  the 
liospital  bed. 

Horror  of  women  in  travail  among  the 
dying  and  dead, 

Grief  for  our  perishing  children,  and 
never  a  moment  for  grief. 

Toil  and  ineffable  weariness,  faltering 
hopes  of  relief, 

Havelock  baffled,  or  beaten,  or  butcher'd 
for  all  that  we  knew  — 

Then  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  com- 
ing down  on  the  still-shatter'd 
walla 


Millions  of  musket-bullets,  and  thou- 
sands of  cannon-balls  — 

But  ever  upon  the  topmost  roof  our  ban- 
ner of  England  blew. 


Hark   cannonade,  fusillade  !  is  it  true 

what  was  told  by  the  scout  ? 
Outram   and    Havelock  breaking  their 

way  thro'  the  fell  mutineers  ! 
Surely  the  pibroch  of  Europe  is  ringing 

again  in  our  ears  ! 
All  on  a  sudden  the  garrison  utter  a  ju- 
bilant shout, 
Havelock's  glorious  Highlanders  answer 

with  conquering  cheers, 
Forth  from  their  holes  and  tlieir  hidings 

our  women  and  children  come  out, 
Blessing  the  wholesome  white  faces  of 

Havelock's  good  fusileers, 
Kissing  the  war-harden'd  hand  of  the 

Highlander  wet  with  their  tears  ! 
Dance  to  the  pibroch  !  —  saved  !  we  are 

saved  !  —  is  it  you  ?  is  it  you  ? 
Saved   by  the  valor  of  Havelock,  saved 

by  the  blessing  of  Heaven  ! 
"  Hold  it   for  fifteen  days  ! "  we  have 

held  it  for  eighty-seven  ! 
And  ever  aloft  on  the  palace  roof  the  old 

banner  of  England  blew. 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


579 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 

The  original  preface  to  "The  Lover's  Tale  "  states  that  it  was  comrosed  in  my  nineteenth 
year.  Two  only  of  the  three  parts  tlien  written  were  printed,  when,  feeling  the  imperfection  of 
the  i)oeni.  1  withih'ew  it  from  tin;  iness.  One  of  my  friends,  however,  wlio,  l)oy-lil<e.  admired 
the  boy's  worl<,  distributed  among  oui'  <'ommi>n  associates  of  tliat  hour  some  copies  dI'  these  two 
l)arts,  without  my  knowledge,  witliont  tlie  ondssions  and  amendments  wliich  I  had  in  contem- 
I)Iation,  and  marred  l)y  the  many  mispiints  of  tlie  compositor.  Seeing  tliat  these  two  parts 
have  of  late  l)een  mercilessly  pirated,  and  tliat  what  I  liad  deemed  scarce  worthy  to  live  is  npt 
allowed  to  die,  may  I  not  be  ixirdoiicd  if  I  suiter  the  whole  poem  at  last  to  come  into  llie  light, 
accompanied  with  a  reprint  of  the  seiiud,  —  a  work  of  no  mature  life,  —  "  The  Goldeu  Supper  "? 

May,  1S70. 


ARGUMENT. 


Julian,  whose  cousin  and  foster-sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and  rival,  Lionel, 
endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his  own  love  for  ner,  and  the  strange  sequel.  He  speaks  (in 
Parts  U.  and  III. )  of  having  been  haunted  by  visions  and  the  .sound  of  bells,  tolling  for  a  funeral, 
and  at  last  ringing  for  a  marriage  :  but  he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  approaches  the  Event, 
and  a  witness  to  it  completes  the  tale. 


I. 


Here  far  away,  .seen  from  tlie  topmost 

clilF, 
Filling  with  purple  gloom  the  vacani.'ie.s 
Between  the  tufted  hills,  the  sloping  seas 
Hung  in  mid-heaven,  and  half  way  down 

rare  sails, 
White  as  white  clouds,  floated  from  sky 

to  sky. 
Oh  !  pleasant  breast  of  waters,  quiet  hay, 
Like  to  a  quiet  mind  in  tiie  loud  world, 
Where  the  chafed  breakers  of  the  outer 

sea 
Sank  powerless,  as  anger  falls  aside 
And  withers   on  the  breast  of  iieaceful 

love  ; 
Thou  didst  receive  the  growtli  of  pines 

that  fledged 
The   hills  that  watched  thee,   as  Love 

watcheth  Love, 
In  thine  own  essence,  and  delight  thyself 
To  make  it  wholly  thine  on  sunny  days. 
Keep  thou  thy  name  of  "  Lover's  Bay." 

See,  sirs. 
Even  now  the  Goddess  of  the  Past,  that 

takes 
The  heart,  and  sometimes  touches  but 

one  string 
That  quivers,  and  is  silent,  and  some- 
times 
Sweeps  suddenly  all  its  half-moulder'd 

chords 
To  some  old  melody,  begins  to  play 


That  air  which  pleased  her  first.     I  feel 

thy  breath  ; 
I  come,  great  MLstress  of  the  ear  and  eye: 
Thy  breath   is  of  the  pine  wood  ;  and 

tho'  years 
Have  hollow'd  out  a  deep  and  stormy 

.strait 
Betwixt  the  native  land  of   Love  and 

me, 
Breathe  but  a  little  on  me,  and  the  sail 
Will  draw  me  to  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
The  lucid  chambers  of  the  morning  star, 
And  East  of  Life. 

Permit  me,  friend,  I  prithee, 
To  pass  my  hand  across  my  brows,  and 

muse 
On  those  dear  hills,  that  never  more  will 

meet 
The  sight  that  throbs  and  aches  beneath 

my  touch. 
As  tho'  tlieie  beat  a  heart  in  either  eye  ; 
For  when  the  outer  lights  are  darken'd 

thus. 
The  monory's  vision  hath  a  keener  edge. 
It  grows  upon  me  now  —  the  .semicircle 
Of  dark   blue  waters  and   the  narrow 

fringe 
Of  curving  beach  —  its  wreaths  of  drip- 
ping green  — 
Its  pale  pink  shells  —  the  summer-house 

aloft 
That  open'd  on  the  pines  with  doors  of 

glass, 


580 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


A  mountain    nest  —  the   pleasure-boat 

that  rock'd 
Light  green  with  its  own  shadow,  keel 

to  keel, 
Upon  the  dappled  dimplings  of  the  wave. 
That  blanch'd  upon  its  side. 

0  Love,  0  Hope  ! 
They  come,  they  crowd  upon  me  all  at 

once  — 
Moved   from  the  cloud  of  unforgotteu 

things, 
That  fometimes  on  the  horizon  of  the 

mind 
Lies  folded,    often   sweeps   athwart   in 

storm  — 
Flash  upon  Hash  they  lighten  thro'  me 

—  days 
Of  dewy  dawning  and  the  amber  eyes 
When  thou  and  I,  Camilla,  thou  and  I 
Were   borne   about    the   bay   or   safely 

moor'd 
Beneath  a  low-brow'd  cavern,  where  the 

tide 
Plash'd,  sapping  its  worn  ribs  ;  aud  all 

without 
The  slowly  lidging  rollers  on  the  cliffs 
Clash'd,  calling  to  each  other,  and  thro' 

the  arch 
Down  those  loud  waters,  like  a  setting 

star, 
Mixt  with  the  gorgeous  west  the  light- 
house shone, 
And  silver-smiling  Venus  ere  she  fell 
Woidd  often  loiter  in  her  balmy  blue, 
To  crown  it  with  herself. 

Here,  too,  my  love 
Waver'd  at  anchor  with   me,  when  day 

hung 
From  his  mid-dome   in    Heaven's   airy 

halls  ; 
Gleams  of    the   water-circles,    as   they 

broke, 
Flicker'd  like  doubtful  smiles  about  her 

lips. 
Quiver'd  a  fl3'ing  glory  on  her  hair, 
Leapt  like  a  passing  thought  across  her 

eyes  ; 
Aud  mine  with  one  that  will  not  pass, 

till  earth 
And  heaven    pass    too,    dwelt   on    my 

heaven,  a  face 
Most  starry-fair,  but  kindled  from  within 
As  't  were  with  dawn.     She  was  daik- 

haired,  dark-eyed  : 
Oh,  such  dark  eyes  !  a  single  glance  of 

them 


Will  govern  a  whole  life  from  birth  to 
death. 

Careless  of  all  things  else,  led  on  with 
light 

In  trances  and  in  visions  :  look  at  them, 

You  lose  yourself  in  utter  ignorance  ; 

You  cannot  find  their  depth  ;  for  they 
go  back, 

And  farther  back,  and  still  withdraw 
themselves 

Quite  into  the  deep  soul,  that  evermore 

Fresh  springing  from  her  fountains  in 
the  brain, 

Still  pouring  thro',  floods  with  redun- 
dant life 

Her  narrow  portals. 

Trust  me,  long  ago 
I  should  have  died,  if  it  were  possible 
To  die  in  gazing  on  that  perfectness 
Which    I    do   bear   within    me :    I  had 

died. 
But  from  my  farthest  lapse,  my  latest 

ebb, 
Thine  image,  like  a  charm  of  light  and 

strength 
Upon  the  waters,  push'd  me  back  again 
On  these  deserted  .sands  of  barren  life. 
Tho'    from   the   deep   vault   where   the 

heart  of  Hope 
Fell   into  dust,  and   crumbled   in   the 

dark  — 
Forgetting  how  to  render  beautiful 
Her  countenance  with  quick  aud  health- 
ful blood  — 
Thou  didst  not  sway  me  upward  ;  could 

I  perish 
While  thou,  a  meteor  of  the  .sepulchre. 
Didst  swathe  thyself  all  lound   Hope's 

quiet  urn 
Forever  ?     He,  that  saith  it,  hath  o'er- 

stept 
The  slippery  footing  of  his  narrow  wit, 
.\nd  fall'n  away  from  judgment.     Thou 

art  light. 
To  which  my  spirit  leaneth  all  her  flow- 
ers, 
A  nd  length  of  days,  and  immortality 
Of  thought,  and  freshness  ever  self-re- 

new'd. 
For  Time  and  Grief  abode  too  long  with 

Life, 
And,  like  all  other  friends  i'  the  world, 

at  last 
They  grew  aweary  of  her  fellowship  : 
So   Time   and   Gnef  did    beckon   unto 

Death, 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE, 


581 


And  Death  drew  nigh  and  heat  the  doors 

of"  Life ; 
But  thou  didst  sit  alone  in  the  inner 

house, 
A  wakeful  portress,  and  didst  parle  with 

Death,— 
"  This  is  a  charmed  dwelling  which  I 

hold"; 
So  Death  gave  hack,  and  would  no  fur- 
ther come. 
Yet  is  my  life  nor  in  the  present  time, 
Nor  in  the  present  place.     To  me  alone, 
Push'd  from  his  chair  of  regal  heritage, 
The  Present  is  the  vassal  of  the  Past  : 
So  that,  in  that  1  have  lived,  do  1  live. 
And  cannot  die,  and  am,  in  having  been, 
A  portion  of  the  pleasant  yesterday. 
Thrust  forward   on  to-day  and  out   of 

place ; 
A   body  journeying  onward,  sick   with 

toil. 
The  weight  as  if  of  age  upon  my  limbs. 
The  grasp  of  hopeless  grief  about  my 

heart. 
And  all  the  senses  weaken'd,  save  in  that, 
"Which  long  ago  they  had  glean'd  and 

garner'd  up 
Into  the  granaries  of  memory  — 
The  clear  brow,  bulwark  ol'  tlie  precious 

brain, 
Chink'd   as  you  see,  and  seam'd — and 

all  the  while 
The  light  soul  twines  and  mingles  with 

the  growths 
Of  vigorous  early  days,  attracted,  won, 
Married,  made  one  with,  molten  into  all 
The  beautiful  in  Past  of  act  or  ])lace. 
And  like  the  all-enduring  camel,  driven 
Far  from  the  diamond  fountain  by  the 

palms. 
Who  toils  across   the   middle  moon-lit 

nights. 
Or  when  the  white  heats  of  the  blinding 

noons 
Beat  from  the  concave  sand  ;  yet  in  him 

keeps 
A  draught  of  that  sweet  fountain  that 

he  loves. 
To  stay  his  feet  from  falling,  and   his 

spirit 
From  bitterness  of  death. 

Ye  ask  me,  friends, 
When  I  began  to  love.     How  should  1 


tell 


you 


Or  from  the  after-fulness  of  my  heart, 
Flow  back  again  unto  my  .slender  spring 


And  first  of  love,  the'  every  turn  and 

depth 
Between  is  clearer  in  my  life  than  all 
Its  present  How.     Ye   know  not  what 

ye  ask. 
How  should  the  broad  and  open  flower 

tell 
What  sort  of  bud  it  was,  wlien,  prest 

together 
In  its  green  sheath,  close-lapt  in  silken 

folds, 
It  seem'd  to  keep  its  sweetness  to  itself, 
Yet  was  not  the  less  sweet  for  tliat  it 

seem'd  I 
For  young  Life  knows  not  when  young 

Life  was  born, 
But   takes    it   all  for  granted  :  neither 

Love, 
Warm  in  the  lieart,  his  cradle,  can  re- 
member 
Love  in  the  womb,  but  resteth  satisfied. 
Looking  on  her  that  brought  him  to  the 

light : 
Or  as   men   know   not  when  they  fall 

asleep 
Into  delicious  dreams,  our  other  life, 
So  know  I  not  when  I  began  to  love. 
This  is  my  sum  of  knowledge  —  that  my 

love 
Grew  with  myself  —  say  rather,  was  my 

growth. 
My  inward  sap,  the  hold  I  have  oti  earth. 
My   outward  circling   air   wherewith  I 

breathe. 
Which  yet  upholdsmy  life,  and  evermore 
Is  to  me  daily  life  and  daily  death  : 
For  how  should  I  have  lived  and  not 

have  loved  ? 
Can  ye  take  off  the  sweetness  from  the 

flower. 
The  color  and  the  sweetness  from   the 

rose. 
And  place  them  by  themselves  ;  or  set 

apart 
Their  motions  and  their  brightness  from 

the  stars, 
And   then  point  out  the  flower  or  the 

star  ? 
Or  build  a  wall  betwixt  my  life  and  love. 
And    tell  me  where  I  am?     'Tis  even 

thus  : 
In  that  I  live  I  love ;  because  I  love 
I  live  :  whate'er  is  fountain  to  the  one 
Is  fountain  to  the  other  ;  and  whene'er 
Our  God  unknits  the  riddle  of  the  one, 
There  is  no  .shade  or  fold  of  mystery 
Swathing  the  other. 


582 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


Many,  many  years 
(For  theyseein  many  and  my  most  of  life, 
And  well  I  could  have  linger'd  in  that 

porch. 
So  unproportion'd  to  the  dwelling-place). 
In  the  May  dews  of  childhood,  opposite 
The  flush  and  dawn  of  youth,  we  lived 

togetiier,  ' 

Apart,  alone  together  on  those  hills. 

Before  he  saw  my  day  my  father  died, 
And  he  was  happy  that  he  saw  it  not ; 
But  I  and  the  tirst  daisy  on  his  grave 
From  the  same  clay  came  into  light  at 

once. 
As  Love  and  I  do  number  equal  j'ears. 
So  she,  my  love,  is  of  an  age  with  me. 
How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 

each  ! 
On  the  same  morning,  almost  the  same 

hour. 
Under  the  selfsame  aspect  of  the  stars, 
(0  falsehood  of  all  starcraft  !)  we  were 

horn. 
How  like  each  other  was  the  birth  of 

each ! 
The  sister  of  my  mother  — she  that  bore 
Camilla  close  beneatli  her  beating  heart. 
Which  to  the  imprison'd  spirit  of  the 

child. 
With  its  true-touched  pulses  in  the  flow 
And  hourly  visitation  of  the  blood. 
Sent  notes  of  preparation  manifold, 
And    mellow'd     echoes    of    the    outer 

world  — 
My  mother's  sister,  mother  of  my  love. 
Who  had  a  twofold  claim  upon  my  heart. 
One  twofold  mightier   than   the  other 

was, 
In  giving  so  much  beauty  to  the  world, 
And  so  much  wealth  as  God  had  charged 

her  with  — 
Loathing  to  put  it  from  herself  forever. 
Left  her  own  life  with  it  ;   and  dying 

thus, 
Crown'd  with  her  highest  act  the  placid 

face 
And  breathless  body  of  her  good  deeds 

past. 

So  we  were  born,  so  orphan'd.     She 

was  motherless 
And  I  without  a  father.     So  from  each 
Of  those  two  pillars  which  from  earth 

uphold 
Our  childhood,  one  had  fallen  away,  and 

all 


The  careful  burden  of  our  tender  years 
Trembled   upon    the   other.       He   that 

gave 
Her  life,  to  me  delightedly  fulfill'd 
All  loving-kindnesses,  all  offices 
Of  watchful  care  and  trembling  tender- 
ness. 
He  waked  for  both  :  he  pray'd  for  both  : 

he  slept 
Dreaming  of  both  :  nor  was  his  love  the 

less 
Because  it  was  divided,  and  shot  forth 
Boughs  on  each  side,  laden  with  whole- 
some shade, 
Wherein  we  nested  sleeping  or  awake, 
And  sang  aloud  the  matin -song  of  life. 

She  wns  my  foster-sister  :  on  one  arm 
The  flaxen  ringlets  of  our  infancies 
Wander'd,    the   while   we    rested  :   one 

soft  lap 
Pillow'd  us  both  :   a   common  light  of 

eyes 
AVas  on  us  as  we  lay  :  our  baby  lips. 
Kissing    one    bosom,    ever   drew   from 

thence 
The  stream  of  life,  one  stream,  one  life, 

one  blood. 
One  sustenance,  which,  still  as  thought 

grew  large. 
Still  larger  moulding  all   the  house  of 

thought. 
Made  all   our   tastes  and  fancies  like, 

perhaps  — 
All  —  all  but  one  ;  and  strange  to  me, 

and  sweet. 
Sweet  thro'  strange  years  to  know  that 

whatsoe'er 
Our  general  mother  meant  for  me  alone, 
Our  mutual    mother  dealt  to  both    of 

us  : 
So  what  was  earliest  mine  in  eai-licst  life, 
[  shared  with  her  in  whom  myself  re- 
mains. 

As' was  our  childhood,  so  our  infancy, 
They  tell  me,  was  a  very  miracle 
Of  fellow-feeling  and  communion. 
They   tell   me   that   we  would   not   be 

alone  — 
We  cried  when  we  were  parted  ;  when  I 

wept. 
Her   smile   lit  up  the   rainbow  on   my 

tears. 
Staid  on  the  cloud  of  sorrow ;  that  we 

loved 
The  sound  of  one  another's  voices  more 


THE  LOVER'S  TALE. 


583 


Than  the  gray  cuckoo  loves  his  uame, 
and  learnt 

To  lisp  in  tune  together  ;  that  we  slept 

In  the  same  cradle  always,  face  to  face, 

Heart  beating  time  to  heart,  lip  pressing 
Hp, 

Folding  each  other,  breathing  on  each 
other. 

Dreaming  together  (dreaming  of  each 
other 

They  should  have  added),  till  the  morn- 
ing light 

Sloped  thro'  the  jiines,  upon  the  dewy 
pane 

Falling,  unseal'd  our  eyelids,  and  we 
woke 

To  gaze  upon  each  other.  If  this  be 
true, 

At  thought  of  which  my  whole  soul  lan- 
guishes 

And  faints,  and  hath  no  pulse,  no  breath 
—  as  tho' 

A  man  in  some  still  garden  should  infuse 

Rich  attar  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose. 

Till,  drunk  with  its  own  wine,  and  over- 
full 

Of  sweetness,  and  in  smelling  of  itself, 

It  fall  on  its  own  thorns^  if  this  be 
true,  — 

And  that  way  my  wish  leads  me  ever- 
more 

Still  to  believe  it,  't  is  so  sweet  a 
thouglit,  — 

Why  in  the  utter  stillness  of  the  soul 

Doth  question'd  memory  answer  not, 
nor  tell 

Of  this  our  earliest,  our  closest-drawn. 

Most  loveliest,  earthly-heaveuliest  har- 
mony ? 

O  blossom'd  portal  of  the  lonely  house, 
Green  prelude,  April  promise,  glad  new- 

Of  Being,  which  with  earliest  violets 
And  lavish  carol  of  clear-throated  larks 
Fill'd  all  the  March   of  life  !  —  I  will 

not  speak  of  thee  ; 
These   have   not   seen   thee,  these   can 

never  know  thee. 
They  cannot  understand  me.     Pass  we 

then 
A  term  of  eighteen  years.    Ye  wculd  but 

laugh 
If  1  should   tell   you   how  I  hoard  in 

thought 
The  faded  rhymes  and  scraps  of  ancient 

crones, 


Gray  relics  of  the  nurseries  of  the  world, 
AVhich  are  as  gems  set  in  my  memory. 
Because  she  learnt  them  with  me  ;  or 

what  use 
To  know  her  father  left  us  just  before 
The   daffodil   was  blown  ?    or   how  we 

found 
The  dead  man  cast  upon  the  shore  ?   All 

this 
Seemstothequietdaylight  of  your  minds 
But  cloud  and  smoke,  and  in  the  dark 

of  mine 
Is  traced  with  flame.     Move  with  me  to 

the  event. 

There  came  a  glorious  morning,  such 

a  one 
As  dawns  but  once  a  season.     Mercury 
On   such  a  morning  would  have  flung 

himself 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  swum  with 

balanced  wings 
To  some  tall  mountain  :  when  I  said  to 

her, 
"A  day   for   Gods   to    stoop,"  she  an- 
swered, "  Ay, 
And  men  to  soar"  :  for  as  that  other 

gazed. 
Shading  his  eyes  till  all  the  fiery  cloud. 
The  prophet  and  the  chariot  and  the 

steeds, 
Suck'd  into  oneness  like  a  little  star 
Were  drunk  into  the  inmost  blue,  we 

stood. 
When  first  we  came  from  out  the  pines 

at  noon. 
With   hands  for  eaves,  uplooking   and 

almost 
Waiting  to   see  some  blessed  shape  in 

heaven, 
So  bathed  we  were  in  brilliance.     Nevei 

yet 
Before  or  after  have  I  known  the  spring 
Pour  with  such  sudden  deluges  of  light 
Into  the  middle  summer  ;  for  that  day 
Love,    rising,    shook    his    wiaigs,    and 

charged  the  winds 
With  spiced  May-sweets  from  bound  to 

bound,  and  blew 
Fresh  fire  into  the  sun,  and  from  within 
Burst  thro'  the  heated  buds,  and  sent  his 

soul 
Into  the  songs  of  birds,  and  touch'd  far- 
off' 
His  mountain-altars,  his  high  hills,  with 

flame 
Milder  and  purer. 


584 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


Thro'  the  rocks  we  wound  : 
The  great  pine  shook  with  lonely  sounds 

of  joy 
That  came  on  tlie  sea-wind.     As  moun- 
tain streams 
Our  bloods  ran  I'ree :  the  sunshine  seem'd 

to  brood 
More  M'arndy  on  the  heart  than  on  the 

brow. 
We  often  paused,  and,  looking  back,  we 

saw 
The  clefts  and  openings  in  the  mountains 

till'd 
With  the  blue  valley  and  the  glistening 

brooks, 
And  all  the  low  dark  groves,  a  land  of 

love  ! 
A  land  of  promise,  a  land  of  memory, 
A  land  of  promise  flowing  with  the  milk 
And  honey  of  delicious  memories  ! 
And  down  to  sea,  and  far  as  eye  could 

ken, 
Each  way  from  verge  to  verge  a  Holy 

Land, 
Still  growing  holier  as  you  near'd  the  bay. 
For  there  the  Temple  stood. 

When  we  had  reach'd 
The   grassy   platform    on    some   hill,  I 

stoop'd, 
I  gather'd  the  wild  herbs,  and  for  her 

brows 
And  mine  made  garlands  of  the  selfsame 

flower, 
Which  she  took  smiling,  and  with  my 

work  thus 
Crown'd    her  clear  forehead.     Once  or 

twice  she  told  me 
(For  I  remember  all  things)  to  let  grow 
The  flowers   that    run   poison   in  their 

veins. 
She    said,    "The  evil   flourish    in   the 

world." 
Then  playfully  she  gave  herself  the  lie  — 
"Nothing  in  nature  is  unbeautiful  ; 
So,  brother,  pluck,  and  spare  not."     So 

I  wove 
Ev'n     the     dull-blooded    poppy-stem, 

"  whose  flower, 
Hued  with  the  scarlet  of  a  fierce  sunrise, 
Like  to  the  wild  youth  of  an  evil  prince, 
Is  without  sweetness,  but  who   crowns 

himself 
Above  the  secret  poisons  of  his  heart 
In  his  old  age."     A  graceful  thought  of 

hers 
Grav'n  on  my  fancy  !      And   oh,  how 
like  a  nymph, 


A  stately  mountain  nymph,  she  look'd  i 

how  native 
Unto  the  hills  she  trod  on  !     While  I 

gazed. 
My  coronal  slowly  disentwined  itself 
And  fell  between  us  both  ;  tho'  while  I 

gazed 
My  spirit  leap'd  as  with  those  thrills  oi 

bliss 
That  strike  across   the  soul  in  prayer, 

and  show  us 
That  we  are  surely  heard.     Methought 

a  light 
Burst  from  the  gailand  I  had  wov'n,  and 

stood 
A  solid  glory  on  her  bright  black  hair  ; 
A  light  methought  broke  from  her  dark, 

dark  eyes. 
And  shot  itself  into  the  singing  winds  ; 
A  mystic   light  flash'd   ev'n    from  her 

white  robe 
As  from  a  glass  in  the  sun,  and  fell  about 
My  footsteps  on  the  mountains. 

Last  we  came 
To  what  our  people  call  "The  Hill  of 

Woe." 
A  bridge  is  there,  that,  look'd  at  from 

beneath. 
Seems  but  a  cobweb  filament  to  link 
The   yawning  of  an  earthquake-cloven 

chasm. 
And   thence   one    night,   when  all  the 

winds  were  loud, 
A  woful  man  (for  so  the  story  went) 
Had  thrust  his  wife  and  child  and  dash'd 

himself 
Into  the  dizzy  depth  below.     Below, 
Fierce  in  the  strength  of  far  descent,  a 

stream 
Flies  with  a  shatter'd  foam  along  the 

chasm. 

The  path  was  perilous,  loosely  strewn 

with  crags  : 
We  mounted  slowly  ;  yet  to  both  there 

came 
The  joy  of  life  in  steepness  overcome. 
And   victories   of  ascent,    and   looking 

down 
On  all  that  had  look'd  down  on  us  ;  and 

joy  J  . 

In  breathing  nearer  heaven;   and  joy 

to  me. 
High  over  all  the  azure-circled  earth. 
To  breathe  with  her  as  if  in  heaven  itself ; 
And  more  than  joy  that  I  to  her  became 
Her  guardian  and  her  angel,  raising  her 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


585 


Still  higher,  past  all  peril,  until  she  saw 
Beneath  her  feet  the  region  far  away, 
Beyond  the   nearest   mountain's   bosky 

brows, 
Burst  into  open   prospect  —  heath  and 

hill, 
And  hollow  lined  and  wooded  to  the  lips, 
And  steep-down  walls  of  battlemented 

rock 
Gilded   with    broom,    or  shatter'd  into 

spires. 
And  glory  of  broad  waters  interfused, 
Whence  rose  as  it  were  breath  and  steam 

of  gold. 
And  over  all  the  great  wootl  rioting 
And   climbing,    streak'd   or   starr'd    at 

intervals 
With  falliTig  brook  or  blossoni'd  bush  — 

and  last, 
Framing  the  mighty  landscape  to  the 

west, 
A  purple  range  of  mountain -cones,   be- 
tween 
Whose   interspaces  gush'd  in   blinding 

bursts 
The  incorporate  blaze  of  sun  and  sea. 

At  length 
Descending  from  the  point  and  standing 

both, 
There   on   the   tremulous   bridge,    that 

from  beneath 
Had  seem'd  a  gossamer  filament  up  in 

air. 
We  paused  amid  the  splendor.     All  the 

west 
And  e'en  unto  the  middle   south   was 

ribb'd 
And  barr'd  with  bloom  on  bloom.     The 

sun  below', 
Held  for  a  space  'twixt  cloud  and  wave, 

shower'd  down 
Rays  of  a  mighty  circle,  weaving  over 
That  various  wilderness  a  tissue  of  light 
[Inparallel'd.     On  the  other  side,    the 

moon, 
Half  melted  into  thin  blue  air,  stood 

still. 
And    pale    and    fibrous   as   a   wither'd 

leaf. 
Nor  yet  endured  in  presence  of  His  eyes 
To  indue  his  lustre  ;  most  unlover-like, 
Since  in  his  absence  full  of  light  and  joy, 
And  giving  light  to  others.     But  this 

most. 
Next  to  her  presence  whom  I  loved  so 

well, 
Spoke  loudly  even  into  my  inm>jst  heart 


As  to  my  outward  hearing  :   the  loud 

stream. 
Forth  issuing  from  his  portals  in  the  crag 
(A  visible  link   unto  the  home  of  my 

heart), 
Kan  amber  toward  the  west,  and  nigh 

the  sea 
Parting  my  own  loved  mountains  wat 

received, 
Shorn  of  its  strength,  into  the  sympathy 
Of  that  small  bay,  which  out  to  open 

main 
Glow'd  intermingling  close  beneath  the 

sun. 
Spirit   of   Love  1    that   little   hour  was 

bound 
Shut  in  from  Time,  and  dedicate  to  thee : 
Thy  tires  from  heaven  had  touch'd  it, 

and  the  earth 
They  fell  on  became  hallow'd  evermore. 

We  turn'd  :  our  eyes  met :  hers  were 

bright,  and  mine 
Weie  dim  with  floating  tears,  that  shot 

the  sunset 
In  lightnings  round  me  ;  and  my  name 

was  borne 
Upon  her  breath.     Henceforth  my  name 

has  been 
A  hallow'd  memory  like  the  names  of  old, 
A  centred,  glory-circled  memory. 
And  a  peculiar  treasure,  brooking  not 
Exchange  or  currency  :  and  in  that  hour 
A  hope  tlow'd  round  me, like  ngoldenmist 
Charm'd  amid  eddies  of  melodious  airs, 
A  moment,   ere  the  onward  whirlwind 

shatter  it, 
Waver'd  and  floated  —  which  was  less 

than  Hope, 
Because  it  lack'd  the  power  of  perfect 

Hope  ; 
But  which  was  more  and  higher  than 

all  Hope, 
Because  all  other  Hope  had  lower  aim  ; 
Even  that  this  name  to  which  her  gra- 
cious lips 
Did  lend  such  gentle  utterance,  this  one 

name. 
In   .some  obscure   hereafter,    might   in- 

wreathe 
(How  lovelier,   nobler  then  !)    her  life, 

her  love, 
With   my  life,   love,    soul,   spirit,   and 

heart  and  strength. 

"Brother,"    she    said,    "let    this    be 
call'd  henceforth 


586 


THE   LOVER'S  TALE. 


The  Hill  of  Hope"  ;  and  I  replied,  "O 

sister, 
My  will  is  one  with  thine  ;  the  Hill  of 

Hope." 
Nevertheless,    we   did   not  change   the 

name. 

I  did  not  speak  ;    1  could  not  speak 

my  love. 
Love   lieth   deep  :    Love  dwells  not  in 

lip-depths. 
Love  wraps  his  wings  on  either  side  the 

heart, 
Constraining   it   with   kisses  close  and 

warm, 
Absorbing    all    the    incense    of    sweet 

thoughts 
So  that  they  pass  not  to  the  shrine  of 

sound. 
Else  had  the  life  of  that  delighted  hour 
Di'unk  in  the  largeness  of  the  utterance 
Of  Love  ;  but  how  should  Earthly  meas- 
ure mete 
The  Heavenly-unmeasured  or  unlimited 

Love, 
Who  scarce  can  tune  his  high  majestic 

sense 
Unto  the  thunder-song  that  wheels  the 

spheres, 
Scarce  living  in  the  iEolian  hannony, 
And  flowing  odor  of  the  spacious  air, 
Scarce  housed  within  the  circle  of  this 

Earth, 
Be  cabin'd  u]i  in  words  and  S3'llables, 
Which  pass  with  that  which  breathes 

them  ?     Sooner  Earth 
Might  go  round  Heaven,  and  the  strait 

girth  of  Time 
Inswathe  the  fulness  of  Eternity, 
Than  language  grasp  the  infinite  of  Love. 

0  day  which  did  enwomb  that  happy 

hour, 
Thou  art  blessed  in  the  years,  divinest 

day  ! 
0  Genius  of  that  hour  which  dost  uphold 
Thy  coronal  of  glory  like  a  God, 
Amid  tliy  melancholy  mates  far-seen. 
Who  walk  before  thee,  ever  turning  round 
To  gaze  \ipon  thee  till  their  eyes  are  dim 
With  dwelling  on  the  light  and  depth 

of  thine, 
Thy   name   is   ever  worshipp'd   among 

hours  ! 
Had  1  died  then,  I  had  not  seem'd  to  die, 
For  bliss  stood  round  me  like  the  light 

of  Heaven  — 


Had  I  died  then,  I  had  not  known  the 

death ; 
Yea  had  tjie  Power  from   whose   right 

hand  the  liglit 
Of   Life   issueth,   and   from  whose   left 

hand  floweth 
The  Shadow  of  Death,   perennial  efflu- 

ences. 
Whereof  to  all  that  draw  the  wholesome 

air 
Somewhile  the  one  must  overflow  the 

other ; 
Then  had  he  stemm'dmy  day  with  nightj 

find  driven 
My  current  to  the  fountain  whence  it 

sprang,  — 
Even  his  own  abiding  excellence  — 
On  me,  methinks,  that  shock  of  gloom 

had  fall'n 
Unfelt,  and  in  this  glory  1  had  merged 
The  other,  like  the  sun  I  gazed  uijou, 
Which  seeming  for  the  moment  due  to 

death. 
And  dipping  his  head  low  beneath  the 

verge. 
Yet  bearing  round  about  him  liis  own 

day. 
In  confidence  of  unabated  strength, 
Steppeth  fiom  Heaven  to  Heaven,  from 

light  to  light. 
And  holdeth  his  undimmed  forehead  far 
Into  a  clearer  zenith,  pure  of  cloud. 

We  trod  the  shadow  of  the  downward 
hill; 
We  past  from  light  to  dark.     On  the 

otlier  side 
Is  scoop'd  a  cavern  and  a  mountain  hall, 
AVhich  none  have  fatliom'd.     If  you  go 

far  in 
(The  country  people   rumor)  you  may 

hear 
The  moan  ing  of  the  woman  and  the  child, 
Shut  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the  rock. 
1  too  have  heard  a  sound  —  perchance 

of  streams 
Running  far  on  within  its  inmost  halls, 
The  home  of  darkness ;  but  the  cavern- 
mouth. 
Half  overtrailed  with  a  wanton  weed, 
Gives  birth   to  a  bi-awling  brook,  that 

passing  lightly 
Adown  a  natural  stnir  of  tangled  roots. 
Is  piesently  received  in  a  sweet  grave 
Of  eglantines,  a  place  of  burial 
Far   lovelier  than   its   cradle  •    for  un- 
seen, 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


587 


But  taken  with  the  sweetness  of  the  place, 
It  makes  a  constant  bubbling  melody 
That  drowns  the  nearer  echoes.     Lower 

down 
Spreads  out  a  little  lake,  that,  Hooding, 

leaves 
Low  banks  of  yellow  sand  ;   and  from 

the  woods 
That   belt   it   vise    three  dark,  tall  cy- 
presses, — 
Three  cypresses,  symbols  of  mortal  woe, 
That  men  plant  over  graves. 

Hither  we  came, 
And  sitting  down  upon  the  golden  moss. 
Held    converse    sweet    and    low  ^  low 

converse  sweet, 
In   which   our  voices   bore   least   part. 

The  wind 
Told  !i  love  tale  beside  us,  how  he  wood 
The  waters,   and  the  waters  answering 

lisp'd 
To  kisses  of  the  wind,  that,  sick  with 

love, 
Fainted  at  intervals,  and  grew  again 
To  utterance  of  passion.   Ye  cannot  shape 
Fancy  so  fair  as  is  this  memory. 
Methought  all  excellence  that  ever  was 
Had  drawn  herself  from  many  thousand 

years, 
And  all  the  separate  Edens  of  this  earth. 
To  centre  in   this  place  and  time.     1 

listen'd. 
And  her  words  stole  with  most  prevail- 
ing sweetness 
Intoiny  heart,  as  thronging  fancies  come 
To  boys  and  girls  when  sunnner   days 

are  new. 
And  soul  and  heart  and  body  are  all  at 

ease : 
What  marvel  my  Camilla  told  me  all  ? 
It  was  so  happy  an  hour,  so  sweet  a  place. 
And  I  was  as  the  brother  of  her  blood. 
And  by  tliat  name  1  moved  ujiou  her 

bieath  ; 
Dear  name,  whicli  had  too  much  of  near- 
ness in  it 
And  heralded  the  distance  of  this  time  ! 
At  first  her  voice  was  very  sweet  and  low, 
As  if  she  were  afraid  of  utterance  ; 
But  in  the  onward  current  of  her  s])eech 
(As  echoes  of  the  hollow-banked  brooks 
Are  fashion'd  by  the  channel  which  they 

keep), 
Her  words  did  of  their  meaning  borrow 

sound, 
Hei    cheek  did  catck  the  color  of  her 
words. 


I  heard  and  trembled,  yet  I  could  but 

hear ; 
My  heart   paused  —  my   raised   eyelids 

would  not  fall. 
But  still  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  the  sky. 
I  seem'd  the  only  part  of  Time  stood  still, 
And  saw  the  motion  of  all  other  things  ; 
While  her  words,  syllable  by  syllable. 
Like  water,  drop  by  dro}>,  upon  my  ear 
Fell  ;  and  I  wish'd,  yet  wisli'd  her  not 

to  speak  ; 
But  she  spake  on,  for  1  did  name  no  wish. 
What  marvel  my  I'amilla  told  me  all 
Her    maiden    dignities    of    Hope    and 

Love  — 
"Perchance,"    she    said,     "return'd." 

Even  then  the  stars 
Did  tremble  in  their  stations  as  1  gazed  ; 
But  she  spake  on,  for  1  did  name  no  wish, 
No   wish  —  no   hope.       Hope   was   not 

wholly  dead. 
But  breathing  hard  at  the  approach  of 

Death,  — 
Camilla,  my  Camilla,  who  was  mine 
No  longer  in  the  dearest  sense  of  mine  — 
For  all  the  secret  of  her  inmost  heart, 
And  all  the  maiden  emiure  of  her  mind, 
Lay  like  a  map  Ijefore  me,  and  1  saw 
There,  wheie  1  hoi)ed  myself  to  reign  as 

king. 
There,  where  that  day  I  crown'd  myself 

as  king, 
There   in    my  realm    and  even  on  my 

throne, 
Anotlur  !    Then  it  seem'd  as  tho'  a  link 
Of  some  tight  chain  within  my  inmost 

frame 
Was  riven  in  twain  :  that  life  1  heeded 

not 
Flow'd  fi'om  me,  and  the  darkness  of  the 

grave, 
The  darkness  of    the   grave   aiul   utter 

night. 
Did  swallow  up  my  vision  ;  at  her  feet. 
Even  the  feet  of  her  I  loved,  I  fell, 
Sniit  with  exceeding  sorrow  unto  Death. 

Then  had  the  earth  beneath  me  yawn- 
ing cloven 

With  such  a  sound  as  when  an  iceberg 
splits 

From  cope  to  base  —  had  Heaven  from 
all  her  doors. 

With  all  her  golden  thresholds  clashing, 
roll'd 

Her  heaviest  thunder — I  had  lain  as 
dead, 


588 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


llute,  blind  and  motionless  as  then  I  lay  ; 
Dead,  tor  henceforth  there  was  no  life 

for  me  ! 
Mute,    for   henceforth   what    use   were 

words  to  me  ! 
Blind,  for  the  day  was  as  the  night  to  me  ! 
The  night  to  me  was  kinder  than  the  day ; 
The  night  in  pity  took  away  my  day, 
Because  my  grief  as  yet  was  newly  born 
Of  eyes  too  weak  to  look  upon  the  light ; 
And  thro'  the  hasty  notice  of  the  ear 
Frail  Life  was  startled  from  the  tender 

love 
Of  him  she  brooded   over.      "Would   I 

had  lain 
Until  the  plaited  ivy-tress  had  wound 
Round  my  worn  limbs,   and   the  wild 

biier  had  driven 
Its  knotted  thorns  thro'  my  unpaining 

brows. 
Leaning  its  roses  on  my  faded  eyes. 
The  wind  had  blown  above  me,  and  the 

rain 
Had  fall'n  upon  me,  and  the  gilded  snake 
Had   nestled  in   this   bosom-thioue   of 

Love, 
But  I  had  been  at  rest  for  evermore. 

Long   time   entrancement    held    me. 

All  too  soon 
Life  (like  a  wanton  too-officious  fiiend. 
Who  will  not  hear  denial,  vain  and  rude 
With  proff'er  of  unwished-for  services) 
Entering  all  the  avenues  of  sense 
I'assed  thro'  into  his  citadel,  the  brain. 
With  hated  wannth  of  apprehensivcness. 
And  first  the  dullness  of  the  .sprinkled 

brook 
Smote  on  my  brows,  and  then  1  seem'd 

to  hear 
Its  murmur,  as   the  drowning  seaman 

hears, 
Who  with  his  head  below   the  surface 

dropt 
Listens  the  muffled  booming  indistinct 
Of  the  confused  floods,  and  dindy  knows 
His  head  shall  rise  no  more  :  and  then 

came  in 
The  white    light    of    the   weary  moon 

above. 
Diffused  and  molten  into  flaky  cloud. 
Was  my  sight  drunk  that  it  did  shape 

to  me 
Him  who  should  own  that  name  ?   Were 

it  not  well 
ir  so  be  that  the  echo  of  that  name 
Kinging  within  the  fancy  had  updiawn 


A  fashion  and  a  phantasm  of  the  form 
It  should  attach  to  ?     Phantom  !  —  had 

the  ghastliest 
That  ever  lusted  for  a  body,  sucking 
The  foul  steam  of  the  grave  to  thicken 

by  it, 
There    in    the    shuddering    moonlight 

brought  its  face 
And  what  it  has  for  eyes  as  close  to  mine 
As  he  did--better  that  than  his,  than  he 
The  friend,   the  neighbor,    Lionel,  the 

beloved, 
The  loved,  the  lover,  the  happy  Lionel, 
The  low-voiced,  tender-si)iriteu  Lionel, 
All  joy,  to  whom  my  agony  was  a  joy. 
Oh  how  her  choice  did  leap  forth  from 

his  eyes  ! 
Oh  how  her  love  did  clothe  itself  in 

.smiles  . 

About  his  lips  !  and—  not  one  moment's 

gi'ace  — 
Then  when  the  effect  weigh'd  seas  upon 

my  head 
To  come  my  way  !  to  twit  me  with  the 

cause ! 

Was  not  the  land  as  free  thro'  all  her 

ways 
To  him  as  me?     Was  not  his  wont  to 

walk 
Between  the  going  light  and  growing 

night  ? 
Had  I  not  learnt  my  I0.SS  before  he  came? 
Could  that  be  more  because  he  came  my 

wa\'  ? 
Wliy  should  he  not  come  my  way  if  he 

woidd  ? 
And  yet  to-night,  to-night  —  when  all 

my  wealth 
Flash'd  from  me  in  a  moment  and  I  fell 
Beggar'd  forever  —  why  should  he  come 

my  way 
Robed  in  those  robes  of  light  I  must  not 

wear. 
With  that  great  crown  of  beams  about 

his  brows  — 
Come  like  an  angel  to  a  damned  .soul. 
To  tell   him  of  the  bliss  he  had  with 

God  — 
Come  like  a  careless  and  a  greedy  heir 
That  scarce  can  wait  the  reading  of  the 

will 
Before  he  takes  possession  ?     Was  mine 

a  mood 
To  be  invaded  rudely,  and  not  rather 
A  sacred,  secret,  tniapproached  woe, 
Unspeakable  ?  I  was  shut  up  with  Grief} 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


589 


She  took  the  body  of  my  ]iast  delight, 
Narded  iind  swathed  and  balin'd  it  for 

herself, 
And  laid  it  in  a  sepulchre  of  rock 
Never  to  lise  again.     ]  was  led  mute 
Into  her  teniple  like  a  sacrifice  ; 
I  was  the  High  Priest  in  her  holiest  place. 
Not  to  be  loudly  broken  in  upon. 

0  friend,  thoughts  deep  and  heavy  as 
these  well  nigh 
O'erbore  the  limits  of  my  brain  ;  but  he 
Bent  o'er  me,  and  my  neck  his  arm  up- 

stay'd. 
1  thought  it  was  an  adder's  fold,  and 

once 
1  strove  to  disengage  myself,  but  fail'd, 
Being  so  feeble  :  she  bent  above  me,  too  ; 
Wan  was  her  cheek  ;  for  whatsoe'er  of 

blight 
Lives  in   the  dewy  touch  of  pity  had 

made 
The  red  rose  there  a  pale  one  —  and  her 

eyes  — 
1    saw  the   moonlight  glitter  on  tiieir 

tears  — 
And  some  few  drops  of  that  distressful 

rain 
Fell  on  my  face,  and  her  long  ringlets 

moved. 
Drooping  and  beaten  by  the  breeze,  .ind 

brush'd 
My  fallen  forehead  in  their  to  and  fro. 
For  in  the  sudden  anguish  of  her  heart 
Loosed  from  their  simple  thrall  they  had 

tlow'd  abroad. 
And  floated  on  and  parted  round  her  neck. 
Mantling  her  fonn  half  way.    She,  when 

1  woke. 
Something  she  ask'd,  I  know  not  what, 

and  ask'd,    • 
Unanswer'd,  since  I  spake  not  ;  for  the 

sound 
Of  that  dear  voice  so  musically  low, 
And  now  first  heard  with  any  sense  of 

pain, 
As  it  had  taken  life  away  before. 
Choked  all  the  syllables,  that  strove  to 

rise 
From  my  full  heart. 

The  blissful  lover,  too, 
From  his  great  hoard  of  happiness  dis- 

till'd 
Some  drops  of  solace  ;  like  a  vain  rich 

man, 
That,  having  always   prosper'd   in  the  ^ 

world. 


Folding  his  hands,    deals  comfortable 

words 
To  hearts  wounded  forever ;  yet,  in  truth. 
Fair  speech  was  his  and  delicate  of  phrase^ 
Falling  in  whispers  on   the  sense,  ad- 

dress'd 
More  to  the  inward  than  the  outward 

ear. 
As  rain  of  the  midsummer  midnight  softj 
Scarce  heard,  recalling  fragrance  and  the 

green 
Of  the  dead  spring  :  but  mine  was  wholly 

dead. 
No  bud,  no  leaf,  no  flower,  no  fruit  for 

me. 
Yet  who  had  done,  or  who  had  suff"er'd 

wrong  ? 
And  why  was  I  to  darken  their  pure  love. 
If,  as  I  found,  they  two  did  love  each 

other. 
Because  my  own  was  darken'd  ?     Why 

was  I 
To  cross  between  their  happy  star  and 

them  ? 
To   stand   a   shadow    by  their  shining 

doors. 
And  vex  them  with  my  darkness  ?     Did 

1  love  her  ? 
Ye  know  that  I  did  love  her  ;  to  this 

present 
My  fuU-orb'd  love  has  waned  not.     Did 

I  love  her. 
And  could  I  look  upon  her  tearful  eyes  ? 
What   had   she   done   to   weep  ?     Why- 
should  shf,  weep  ? 

0  innocent  of  spirit  —  let  my  heart 
Break  rather  —  whom  the  gentlest  airs 

of  Heaven 

Should  kiss  with  an  unwonted  gentle- 
ness. 

Her  love  did  murder  mine  ?  What  then  ; 
She  deem'd 

1  wore  a  brother's  mind  :  she  call'd  mc 

brother : 
She  told  me  all  her  love  :  she  shall  not 
weep. 

The  brightness  of  a  burning  thought, 

awhile 
In  battle  with  the  glooms  of  mv  dark 

will. 
Moon-like  emerged,  and  to  itself  lit  up 
There  on  the  depth  of  an  unfathom'd 

woe 
Reflex  of  action.     Starting  up  at  once. 
As  from  a  dismal  dream  of  my  own  death, 
I,  for  I  loved  her,  lost  my  love  in  Love ; 


690 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


I,  for  1  loved  her,  graspt  the  liaiul  she 
lov'd, 

And  laid  it  in  her  own,  and  sent  my  cry 

Tliro'  the  blank  nij^ht  to  Him  wlio  lov- 
ing niad(5 

Tlie  happy  and  the  unliappy  love,  tliat 
He' 

Would  holil  tile  hand  of  blessing  over 
them, 

Lionel,  the  liajipy,  and  her,  and  her,  his 
bri(U>  ! 

Let  them  .so  lovi'  that  men  and  bov.smav 


say. 


till 


"  Lo  !  liovv  they  lovt^  each  other 

theii'  love 
Shall  ripen  to  a  proverb,  niito  all 
Known,   when  their  faees  are  forgot  in 

tlie  land  -- 
One  golden  divam  of  love,  from  which 

may  death 
Awake  them  with  Heaven's  mu.sic  in  a  life 
More  living  to  some  happier  happiness, 
Swallowing  its  preeedeiit  in  vietory. 
And  as  for  me,  Camilla,  as  I'or  nie,     - 
The  dew  of  teals  is  an  unwholesome  dew, 
They  will  but  sieken  the  siek  plant  the 

more. 
Deem  that  I  love  thee  but  as  brothers  do. 
So  shalt  thou  love  me  still  as  sisttHS  ilo  ; 
Or  if  thou  dream   aught  laillier,  dream 

but  how 
1  eould  have  loved  thee,  had  there  been 

none  else 
To  love  as  lovers,  loved  again  by  thee. 

t)r  this,  or  somewhat  like  lo  this,  1 
spake. 
When  1  beheld  her  wee))  so  ruefully  ; 
For  sure  my  love  should  ne'er  indue  the 

flDUt 

And  mask  of  Hate,  who  lives  on  others' 

moans. 
Shall  Love  pledge  Hatred  in   her  bitter 

draugiits, 
And  batten  on  her  poisons  ?     Love  for- 
bid ! 
Love  passeth  not  the  threshold  of  cold 

Hate, 
And  Hate  is  strange  beneath  the  roof  of 

Love. 
0  Love,  if  thou  be'st  Love,  dry  up  these 

t  ears 
Shed  for  the  love  of  Love  ;  for  tho'  mine 

image. 
The  subject  of  thy  ]>o\vcr,  be  cold  in  her, 
5fet,  like  cold  snow,  it  nielteth  in  the 

soiu'ce 


Of  these  sad  tears,  and  feeds  their  dowit 

wartl  How. 
So  Love,  arraign'd  to  judgment  and  to 

death, 
Reeeived  unto  himself  a  part  of  blame, 
Being  guiltless,  as  an  innocent  prisoner, 
Who,   when    the    woful   sentence    hath 

been  past. 
And  all  the  clearness  of  his  fame  hatli 

gone 
Beneath  the  .shadow  of  the  curse  of  man, 
First  falls  asleep  in  swoon,  wherefrom 

awaked, 
Ami    looking   round    upon    his   tearful 

li  ii'uds, 
Forthw ith  and  in  his  agony  conceives 
A  shameful  sense  as'of  a  I'leavingerimc  — 
For  whence  without  some  guilt  should 

such  grief  l)e  '/ 

So  died   that   hour,  and  fell  into  the 
abysm 
Of  forms  outworn,   but  not  to  me  out- 

WIUll, 

Who  ne\cr  hail'd  another-    was   there 

one  '! 
There  might  be  one  —  one  other,  worth 

the  life 
That  niatle  it  sensible.     So    that   hour 

died 
Like  odor  rapt  into  the  winged  wind 
Borne  into  alien  lands  and  far  away. 

There  be  some  liearts  so  airily  built, 

that  they. 
They — when  their  love  is  wreck'd  —  if 

Love  can  wreck  — 
On  that  sharp  ridge  of  utmost  doom  ride 

highly 
Aliove  the  jjeiilous  seas  of  Change  and 

Ohauee  ; 
Nay,  more,  hold  out  the  lights  of  cheer- 
fulness ; 
.\s  the  tall  ship,  that  many  a  dreary  year 
Knit  to  some  dismal  sand-bank  far  at 

sea. 
All  thro'  the  livelong  hours  of  utterdark. 
Showers  slanting  light  upon  the  dolorous 

wave. 
For   me    -what  light,  what  gleam  on 

those  black  ways 
Where  Love  could  walk  with  banish'd 

Hope  no  more  ? 

It  was  ill  done  to  jiart  you,  Sisters  fair; 
Love's  arms   were  wreath'd   about   the 
neck  of  Hope, 


TIIK    I.OVKKS    TALK. 


591 


And  Hopo   kiss'il   I.ovi',  imd    I,ov(<  drew    Why  wore  we  diit'  in  nil   things,  save  in 


in  her  liivatli 


th:it 


In  fliat  close  kiss,  and  drank  her  whis-     Whore   to   liave  been  one  hiul   heen  thr 


jMM'M  tides. 
They  snid   t.hiit    Love  woulil   die   when 

Hope  was  f;one, 
And    Love  inoiirn'd   lonj,',  and  sorrow'd 

alter  Hope; 
Atlastsheson.i;lit  out  Memory,  and  they 

trod 
The    same    old    ]iaths    where    Love   had 

walk'd  with  Hope 
And  Memory  led  the  sonl  of  Love  with 

tears. 


i'op(^  and  crown 
Of  all    I    hoped    and    fear'd  ?   -  if   that 

same  nearness 
Were  father  to  lids  distance,  and  that 

oar 
Vanntconrier  to   this  iIdhIiIc.  .'   if  Allec- 

tion 
Livinf^  slew  i,ove,  and  Sympathy  how'd 

out 
The  l)osoni-sepul(dir(!  of  Sympathy  ? 


Cliiedy  I   sou<flit  the  cavein   and   the 
hill 
II.  "Where  last  we  roamM   to^^ellici',  for  the 

sonn<l 
From    that  time  forth    I  woidd  not  see  [  Of  the  loud  stream   was    pleasant,   and 


her  more  ; 
Rut  many  weary  moons  1  lived  alone  — 
Alone,   and    in    the    heart   of  the  great 

forest. 


the  wind 
Camo  wooingly  with    woodiiine  smells. 

Sometimes 
\11  day  1  sat  within  the  eaveni-moulh. 


Sometimes  upon  tlie  hills  heside  tiie  sea     Fixing  my  eyes  on  those  three  eypres.s 

eoncs 
That  sjiii'eil  above  the  wood  ;  and  with 

mad  hand 
Tearing   the   bright   leaves  of   tlie    ivy- 

.screen, 
I  east  them  in  the  noisy  brook  beneath, 
And    wat(drd    them    till   they    vani.sh'd 

iVom  my  sight 
Heneath  tin;  bower  of  wreatlie<l  eglan- 
tines ; 
;\nd  all  th(!  fragments  of  the  living  rock 
(Mnge  blocks,  which  some  old  licmbling 

of  the  world 
Had    loosen'd    from    the  mountain,   till 

thev  lell 


All  day  1   watch'd  tlie  floating  isles  of 

sha.le. 
And  sometimes  on   the   shore,  upon  the 

s.inds 
Insensibly  1  drew  her  name,  until 
The  meaning  of  the  letters  shot  into 
My    brain  ;     anon     the    wanton     billow 

wash'd 
Them  over,  till  tln'V  faded  like  my  love. 
The     liollow     caverns    heard    me       tlu- 

blai'k  brooks 
Of  the  mid-forest    he.ird   me       the  .soft 

winds, 
Lailen   with   tliistK^  down  and   seeds  of 

llowers. 


Paused  in   their  course  to  hear  me,  for    Half  digging  their  own  graves)  these  in 


my  voice 
Was  all  of  thee  :   the  merry  linnet  knew 

me, 
Thescpiirrel  knewnie,  andthedragou-lly 
Shot  by  me  like  a  Hash  of  iiurjile  lire 


my  agony 
Did  I  make  bare  of  all  the  golden  moss. 
Wherewith   the  dasidng    iiinnel   in   the 

.spring 
Had  liveried  them  all  over,      hi  my  lirain 


The  rougii  brier  tore  my  bleeding  palms  ;    The  spirit  seem'd   to  Hag  iioui   tiiought 


the  liendock, 
Brow-high,  did  stiike  my  forehead  as  1 

])Qst  ; 
Yet  trod  1  not  the  wildllowerin  my  path. 
Nor  bruised  the  wild  binl's  egg. 

Was  this  the  eiul  ? 
Why  grtv,v  v/e  then  together  in  one  plot  ? 
Why   fed  w(!  from  one  fountain  ?    drew 

ono  sun  ? 
Why  Were  our  mothers  branches  of  ouf! 

stem  ? 


to  thought. 
As  moonlight  wamlering  thro'  a  ndst : 

my  blood 
Cre[)t   lik(^   maisli    drains    thro'   all    my 

languid  liudis  ; 
Th(!    motions   of   my    hem-t   seoui'd    far 

within. me, 
UniV(!(iuent,    low,    as    tho'    it    told    its 

pulses  ; 
And  yet  it  .shook   me,   that    my   frame 

would  shudder, 


592 


THE   LOVER'S   TALE. 


As  if  't  were  drawn  asiuuler  by  the  rack. 
But  over  the  deep  graves  of  Hope  and 

Fear, 
And  all  the  broken  palaces  of  the  Past> 
Brooded  one  niaster-j)assion  evermore, 
Like  to  a  low-hung  and  a  iiery  sky 
Above     some     fair    metropolis,    earth- 

shock'd,  — 
Hung  round  with  ragged  rims  and  burn- 
ing folds,  — 
Embathing  all  with  wild  and  woful  hues, 
Great  hills  of  ruins,  and  collapsed  masses 
Of  thunder-shaken  eolunms  indistinct. 
And  fused    together   in    the  tvrannous 

light  — 
Ruins,  the  ruin  of  all  my  life  and  me  ! 

Sometimes  I  thought  Camilla  was  no 

more, 
Some   one  had  told  me  she  was  dead, 

and  ask"d  me 
If  T  would  see  her  burial ;  then  T  seem'd 
To  rise,  a)id  through  the  forest-shadow 

borne 
With  more  than  mortal  swiftness,  I  ran 

down 
The  steepy  sea-bank,  till  T  came  upon 
The  rear  of  a  procession,  curving  round 
The  silver-sheeted  bay  :  in  front  of  which 
Six  stately  virgins,  all  in  white,  upbare 
A  broad  earth-sweeping  pall  of  whitest 

lawn, 
Wreathed  round  the  bier  with  garlands  : 

in  the  distance. 
From  out  the  yellow  woods  upon  the  hill 
Look'd  forth  the  summit  and  the  pinna- 
cles 
Of  a  gray  steeple  —  thence  at  intervals 
A  low  bell  tolling.     All  the  pageantry. 
Save  those  six  virgins  which  upheld  the 

bier, 
Were  stoled  from  head  to  foot  in  flowing 

black  ; 
One  walk'd  abreast  with  me,  and  veil'd 

his  brow, 
And  he  was  loud  in  weeping  and  in  praise 
Of  her  he  followM  :  a  strong  sympathy 
Shook  all  my  soul :  I  flung  myself  upon 

him 
In  tears  and  cries  :  T  told  him  all  my 

love. 
How  I  had  loved  her   from  the   first  ; 

whereat 
He   shrank  and  howl'd,   and  from   his 

brow  drew  back 
His  hand  to  push  me  from  Jbim  ;  and  the 

face. 


The  very  face  and  fomi  of  Lionel 
Flash'd  thro'  my  eyes  into  my  innermost 

brain. 
And  at  his  feet  1  seemed  to  faint  and 

fall. 
To  fall  and  die  away.     I  could  not  lise 
Albeit   I   strove   to   follow.     They  past 

on, 
The  lordly  Phantasms  !  in  their  floating 

lolds 
They  past  and  were  no  more  :  but  I  had 

fallen 
Proue  by  the  dashing  runnel  on  the  grass. 

Alway  the  inaudible  invisible  thought 
Artificer  and  subject,  lord  and  slave, 
Shaped  by  the  audible  and  visible, 
Moulded  the  audible  and  visible  ; 
All  crisped  sounds  of  wave  and  leaf  and 

wind 
Flatter'd  the  fancy  of  my  fading  brain  ; 
The  cloud-pavilion'd  element,  the  wood, 
The  mountain,  the  three  cypresses,  the 

cave. 
Storm,  .sun.set,  glows  and  glories  of  the 

moon 
Below  black  firs,   when  silent-creeping 

winds 
Laid  the  long  night  in  silver  streaks  and 

bars, 
j  Were  wrought   into   the   tissue  of  mj' 

dream  : 
The  meanings  in   the  forest,  the  loud 

brook. 
Cries  of  the  partridge  like  a  rusty  key 
Turn'd  in  a  lock,  owl-whoop  and  dor- 
hawk-whir 
Awoke  me  not,  but  were  a  part  of  sleep. 
And  voices  in  the  distance  calling  to  me 
And  in  my  vision  bidding  me  dream  on. 
Like  sounds  without  the  twilight  realm 

of  dreams, 
Which  wander  lound  the  bases  of  the 

hills. 
And  murmur  at  the  low-dropt  eaves  of 

sleep, 
Half-entering  the  portals.     Oftentimes 
The   vision    liad    fair   prelude,    in    the 

end 
Opening  on  darkness,  stately  vestibules 
To  caves  and  shows  of  Death  :  whether 

the  mind. 
With  some  revenge,  —  even  to  itself  im- 

known,  — 
Made  strange  division  of  its  suffering 
With  her,  whom  to  have  suffering  view'd 

had  been 


THE   LOVERS   TALE. 


593 


Extremest  pain  ;  or  that  the  clear-eyed 

Spirit, 
Being  blunted  in  the  Present,  grew  at 

length 
Prophetical  and  prescient  of  whate'er 
The  Future  had  in  store  :  or  that  which 

most 
Enchains  belief,  the  sorrow  of  my  spirit 
Was  of  so  wide  a  compass  it  took  in 
All  I  had  loved,  and  my  dull  agony. 
Ideally  to  her  transferr'd,  became 
Anguish  intolerable. 

The  day  waned ; 
Alone  I  sat  witli  her  :  about  my  brow 
Her  warm  breath  floated  in  the  utter- 
ance 
Of  silver-chorded  tones  :  her  lips  were 

sunder'd 
"With   smiles   of  tranquil  bliss,    which 

broke  in  light 
Like  morning  from  her  eyes  —  her  elo- 
quent eyes 
(As  I  have  seen  them  many  a  hundred 

times), 
Filled  all  with  pure  clear  fire,  thro'  mine 

down  rainM 
Their  spirit-searching  splendors.     As  a 

vision 
Unto  a  haggard  prisoner,  iron-stay'd 
In  damp  and  dismal  dungeons  under- 
ground. 
Confined    on    points    of    faith,     when 

strengtii  is  shock'il 
With  torment,  and  exi)ectancy  of  worse 
Upon  the  morrow,  thro'  the  ragged  walls. 
All  unawares  before  his  half-shut  eyes, 
Comes  in  upon  him  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  with  the  excess  of  sweetness  and  of 

awe. 
Makes  the  heart  tremble,  and  the  sight 

run  over 
Upon    his   steely  gyves  ;  so   those   fair 

eyes 
Shone   on   my   darkness,    forms   which 

ever  stood 
Within  the  magic  cirque  of  memory. 
Invisible  but  deathless,  waiting  still 
The  edict  of  the  will  to  re-assume 
The  semblance  of  those  rare  realities 
Of  which  they  were  the  mirrors.     Now 

the  light 
Which  was  their  life  bursts  through  the 

cloud  of  thought 
Keen,  irrepressible. 

It  was  a  room 
Within  the  suramer-house  of  which    I 
spake,  I 


Hung  round  with  paintings  cf  the  sea, 

and  one 
A  vessel  in  mid-ocean,  her  heaved  prow 
Clambering,  the  mast  Isent  and  the  ravin 

wind 
In  her  sail  roaring.     From  the  outer  day. 
Betwixt  the  close-set  ivies  came  a  broad 
And  solid  beam  of  isolated  light, 
Crowded  with  driving  atomies,  and  fell 
Slanting  upon  that  picture,  from  pnme 

youth 
Well  known,  well  loved.     She  drew   it 

long  ago 
Forth-gazing  on  the  waste  and  open  sea. 
One  morning  when  the  upblown  billow 

ran 
Shoreward   beneath    red   clouds,  and  I 

had  pour'd 
Into  the  shadowing  pencil's  naked  forms 
Color  and  life  :  it  was  a  bond  and  seal 
Of  friendship,  spoken  of  with   tearful 

smiles ; 
A  monument  of  cliildhood  and  of  love  ; 
The  poesy  of  childhood  ;  my  lost  love 
Symbol'd   in   storm.     We  gazed  on  it 

together 
In    mute   and  glad   remembrance,    and 

each  heart 
Grew  closer  to  the  other,  and  the  eye 
Was  riveted   and  charm-bound,  gazing 

like 
The  Indian  on  a  still-eyed  snake,  low- 

couch'd  — 
A  beauty  which  is  death  ;  when  all  <it 

once 
That  painted  vessel,  as  with  inner  life, 
Began  to  heave  upon  that  painted  sea  ; 
An   earthquake,    my   loud   heart-beats, 

made  the  ground 
Reel  under  us,  and  all  at  once,  soul,  life 
And  breath  and  motion,  past  and  flow'd 

away 
To  those  unreal  billows  :  round  and  round 
A  whirlwind  caught  and  bore  us  ;  mighty 

gyres 
Rapid  and  vast,  of  hissing  spray  wind- 
driven 
Far  thro'  the  dizzy  dark.     Aloud  she 

shriek  "d ; 
My  heart  was  cloven  with  pain ;  I  wound 

my  arms 
About   her :    we   whirl'd   giddily ;    the 

wind 
Sung ;  but  I  claspt  her  without  fear  :  her 

weight 
Shrank  in  my  grasp,  and  over  my  dim 
eyes. 


594 


THE   LOVEH  S   TALE. 


And  parted  lips  which  drank  her  breath, 

down  hung 
The  jaws  of  Death  :  I,  groaning,  from  me 

flung 
Her  empty  phantom  :  all  the  sway  and 

wiiirl 
Of  the   storm  dropt  to  windless  calm, 

and  I 
Down  welter'd  thro'  the  dark  ever  and 

ever. 


III. 

I  CAME  one  day  and  sat  among  the  stones 
Strewn  in  the  entry  of  the  moaning  cave  ; 
A  morning  air,  sweet  after  rain,  ran  over 
The  ri|>pling  levels  of  the  lake,  and  blew 
Coolness  and  moisture  and  all  smells  of 

bud 
And  foliage  from  the  dark  and  dripping 

woods 
Upon  my  fever'd  brows  that  shook  and 

throbb'd 
From    tenii)le   unto   temple.     To  what 

heiglit 
The  day  had  grown  T  know  not.     Then 

came  on  me 
The  hollow  tolling  of  the  bell,  and  all 
The  vision  of  tlie  bier.     As  heretofore 
T  walk'd  behind  with  one  who  veil'd  his 

brow. 
Methouglit  by  slow  degrees  the  sullen 

bell 
Toll'd  quicker,  and  the  bieakers  on  the 

shore 
Sloped  into  louder  surf  :  those  that  went 

with  me, 
And  those  that  held  the  bier  belbre  my 

face. 
Moved  with  one  spirit  round  about  the 

l>ay, 
Trod  .swifter  steps  ;  and  while  1  walk'd 

with  these 
In   marvel   at   that   gradual  change,  T 

thought 
Four  bells  instead  of  one  began  to  ring, 
Four  merry  bells,   four  merry  marriage 

bells. 
In  clanging  cadence  jangling  peal  on 

peal  — 
A  long  loud  clash  of  rapid  marriage  bells. 
Then  those  who  led  the  van,  and  those 

in  rear, 
Rush'd     into     dance,     and     like    wild 

Bacchanals 
Fled  onward  to  the  steeple  in  the  weeds  : 


I,  too,  was  borne  along  and  felt  the  l)last 
Beat  on  my  heated  eyelids  :  all  at  oace 
The  front  rank  made  a  sudden  halt ;  the 

bells 
Lapsed  into  frightful  stillness  ;  the  surge 

fell 
From  thunder  into  whispers  ;  those  six 

maids 
With  shrieks  and  ringing  laughter  on 

the  sand 
Threw  down  the  bier  ;  the  woods  u[)on 

the  hill 
Waved  with  a  sudden  gust  that  sweep- 
ing down 
Took  the  edges  of  the  pall,  and  blew  it  far 
Until  it  hung,  a  little  silver  cloud, 
Over  the  sounding  seas  :  I  turn'd  :  my 

heart 
Shrank  in  me,  like  a  snow-flake  in  the 

hand. 
Waiting  to  see  the  settled  countenance 
Of  her    I   lov'd,    adorn'd   with    fading 

flowers. 
Butshe  from  out  her  death-like  chrysalia. 
She  from  her  bier,  as  into  fresher  life, 
My  sister,  and  my  cousin,  and  my  love, 
Leapt  lightly  clad  in  bridal  white  —  her 

hair 
Studded  with  one  rich  Provence  rose  — 

a  light 
Of  smiling  welcome  round  her  lips  — 

her  eyes 
And  cheeks  as  bright  as  when  she  climb'd 

the  hill. 
One  hand  she  reach'd  to  those  that  came 

behind, 
And  whih;  I  mused  nor  yet  endured  to 

take 
So  rich  a  prize,  the  man  who  stood  with 

me 
Stept  gayly  forward,  throwing  down  his 

robes, 
And  claspt  her  hand  in  his  :  again  the 

bells 
Jangled  and  clang'd  :  again  the  stormy 

surf 
Crash'd  in  the  shingle  :  and  the  whirling 

rout 
Led  by  those  two  rush'd  into  dance,  and 

fled 
Wind-footed  to  the  steeple  in  the  woods, 
Till  they  were  swallow'd  in  the  leafy 

bowers. 
And  I  stood  sole  beside  the  vacant  bier. 

There,   there,    my  latest  vision  —  then 
the  event ! 


THE  LOVERS  TALE. 


595 


IV. 

THE  GOLDEN   SUPPER. 
Another  speaks.) 

He  flies  the  event :  he  leaves  the  event 

to  me  : 
Poor  Julian  —  how  he  nish'd  away  ;  the 

bells, 
Those  marriage  bells,  echoing  in  ear  and 

heart  — 
But  east  a  parting  glance  at  me,  you  saw, 
As  who  should  say  "  Continue."    Well, 

he  had 
One  golden  hour  ^  of  triumph  shall  I 

say? 
Bolace  at  least  —  before  he  left  his  home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that  hour 

of  his  ! 
He  moved  thro'  all  of  it  majestically  — 
Restrain'd  himself  quite  to  the  close  — 

but  now  — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady's  marriage 

bells, 
Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 
I  never  asked  :  but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
AVere  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came  again 
Back  to  his  mother's  house  among  the 

pines. 
But  these,  their  gloom,  the  mountains 

and  the  bay 
The  whole  land  weigh'd  him  down  as 

iEtna  does 
The  Giant  of  Mythology  :  he  would  go, 
Would  leave  the  land  for  ever,  and  had 

gone 
Surely,  but  for  a  whisper,  "  Go  not  yet," 
Some   warning  —  sent   divinely,    as    it 

seem'd 
]^y  that  which  follow'd,  but  of  this  I  deem 
As  of  tlie  visions  that  he  told  —  the  event 
Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after-life, 
And  partly  made  them,  tho'  he  knew  it 

not. 

And  thus  he  stayed  and  would   not 

look  at  her  — 
No,    not   for   months  ;    but,   when   the 

eleventh  moon 
After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover  s  bay. 
Beard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell, 

and  said. 
Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life,  but 

found  — 


All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to  him  — 
A  crueller  reason  than  a  crazy  ear. 
For  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady  dead  — 
Dead  —  and  had  lain  three  days  without 

a  pulse  ; 
All  that  look'd  on  her  had  pronounced 

her  dead. 
.\nd  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian's  land. 
They  never  nail  a  dumb  head  up  in  elm). 
Bore  her  iVee-faced  to  the  free  airs  ot 

heaven, 
And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own  kin. 

What  did  he  then  ?    not  die  :    he  is 

here  and  hale  : 
Xot    plunge    head-foremost    from    the 

mountain  there. 
And  leave  the  name  of  Lover's  Leap  : 

not  he  : 
He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  whispei 

now. 
Thought   that   he    knew  it.      "This,  I 

stayed  for  this  ; 

0  love,  1  have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now,  now,  will  I  go  down  into  tl;e  grave, 

1  will  be  all  alone  with  all  I  love, 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.     She  is  his  no 

more  : 
The  dead  returns  to  me;  and  I  go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead." 

The  fancy  .stirr'd  him  .so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the  dim 

vault. 
And,  making  there  a  sudden  light,  beheld 
All   round   about   him   that  which   all 

will  be. 
The  light  was  but  a  flash,  and  went  again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lad}'  with  the  moonlight  on  her  face  ; 
Her  breast  as  in  a  shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  which  the 

moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drown'd  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of  the 

vault. 

'*  It  was  my  wish,"  he  said,  "  to  pass, 

to  sleep. 
To  rest,  to  be  with  her  —  till  the  great 

day 
Peal'd   on   us  with   that   music  which 

rights  all. 
And   raised   us   hand   in  hand."     And 

kneeling  there 
Down  in  the  dreadful    dust   that   once 
1  was  man, 


596 


THE   LOVER  S   TALE. 


Dust,  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving 

hearts. 
Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a  love 

as  mine  — 
Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as 

her  — 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kissed  her  more   than   once,  till 

helpless  death 
And  silence  made  him  bold  —  nay,  but 

I  wrong  him, 
He   reverenced  his   dear   lady  even   in 

death  ; 
But,   placing  his  true  hand  upon   her 

heait, 
"0  you  M'arnr  lieart,"  he  moaned,  "not 

even  death 
Can  chill  you  all  at  once  : "  then,  start- 
ing, thought 
His  dreams  had  come  again.     "Do   I 

wake  or  sleep  ? 
Or  am  1  made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal   once    more  ?  "      It    beat  —  the 

heart, —  it  beat : 
Faint  —  but  it  beat :  at  which  his  own 

began 
To  pulse  with  such  a  vehemence  that  it 

drowned 
The  feebler  motion  underneath  his  hand. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  satis- 
fied, 
He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre, 
And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the  cloak 
He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and 

now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burden  in  his  arms. 
So  bore  her  thro'  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother's  house  where  she 

was  born. 

There  the  good  mother's  kindly  min- 
istering. 
With  half  a  night's  appliances,  recall'd 
Her  fluttering  life  :   she   raised  an  eye 

that  ask'd 
'^' Where  ? "  till  the  things  familiar  to  her 

youth 
Had   made  a  silent  answer  :  then  she 

spoke : 
"Hei-e!  and   how  came  I  here?"  and 

learning  it 
(They  told  lier  somewhat   rashly  as   I 

think) 
At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 
"Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give 

me  back  : 


Send  !  bid  him  come  ; "  but  Lionel  was 
away  — 

Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanished,  none 
knew  where. 

"He  casts  me  out,"  she  wept,  "and 
goes"- — a  wail 

That  seeming  something,  yet  was  noth- 
ing, born 

Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter  d 
nerve, 

Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  reproof 

At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 

Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had  re- 
turned, 

"Oh  yes,  and  you,"  she  said,  "and 
none  but  you. 

For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love 
again. 

And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell  him 
of  it. 

And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he 
returns." 

"Stay  then  a  little,"  answered  Julian, 
' '  here. 

And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to 
yourself ; 

And  I  will  do  your  will.  I  may  not 
stay, 

No,  not  an  hour  ;  but  send  me  notice 
of  him 

When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I  return. 

And  1  will  make  a. solemn  offering  of  you 

To  him  you  love."  And  faintly  .she  re- 
plied, 

"  And  I  will  do  ijoiir  will,  and  none 
.shall  know." 

Not  know?  with  such  a  secret  to  be 

known ! 
But  all  their  hou.se  was  old  and  loved 

them  both. 
And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves 

of  both ; 
Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any  way  : 
And  all  the  land  was  waste  and  solitary  : 
And  then  he  rode  away  ;  but  after  this, 
An  hour  or  two,  Camilla's  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a  boy  was  born. 
Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 
And  pausing  at  a  hostel  in  a  marsh, 
There  fever  seized  upon  him  :  myself  was 

then 
Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to  rest 

an  hour; 
And  sitting  down  to  such  a  base  repast 


THE   lover's   tale. 


597 


It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it, 
I  heard  ugioaniug overhead,  audcliinb'd 
The  moulder'd  stairs  (for  everything  was 

vile), 
And  in  a  loft,  with  none  to  wait  on  him, 
Found,  as  it  seem'd,  a  skeleton  alone, 
Raving  of  dead  men's  dust  and  beating 

hearts. 

A  dismal  hostel  in  a  dismal  land, 
A  flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rash  ! 
But  there  from  fever  ami  my  care  of  him 
Sprang  up  a  friendship  that  may  helj) 

us  yet. 
For   while  we  roam'd  along  the  dreary 

coast, 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by 

piece 
1  learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life  ; 
And,  tho'  he  loved  and  honor'd  Lionel, 
Found  that   the    sudden  wail   his  lady 

maile 
Dwelt  in  his  fancy  :  did  he  know  her 

worth. 
Her   beauty    even  ?    should   he   not   be 

taught, 
Ev'u  by  the  price  that  others  set  upon  it, 
The  value  of  that  jewel  he  had  to  guard  1 

Suddenly  came  her  notice,  and  we  past, 
I  with  our  lover,  to  his  native  bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  miud,  the 

soul  : 
That  makes  the  sequel  pure  ;  tho'  some 

of  us 
Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 
Not  such  am  1  :  and  yet  I  say,  the  bird 
That   will   not   hear   my  call,  however 

sweet, 
But   if   my   neighbor    whistle  answers 

him  — 
Wliat   matter  ?  there  are  others  in  the 

wood. 
Yet  when  I  saw  her  (and  I  thought  him 

crazed, 
Tho'  not  with  such  a  craziness  as  needs 
A  cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of 

hers  — ■ 
Oh  !  such  dark  eyes  !    and  not  her  eyes 

alone, 
But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch'd 

on  earth  — 
For  such  a  craziness  as  Julian's  look'd 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 


To  greet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her  arms  1 
"  Kiss  him,"  she  said.      "  You  gave  me 

life  again. 
He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 
His   other  father  you  !     Kiss  him  and 

then 
Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian  too.' 

Talk  of  lost  hojies  and  broken  heart ! 

his  own 
Sent  such  a  flame  into  his  face,  I  knew 
Some   sudden    vivid   pleasure   hit   him 

there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to  go. 
And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying  him, 
By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne 

the  dead, 
To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with  him 
Before  he  left  the  land  for  evermore  ; 
And   then    to   friends  —  they  were  not 

many  —  who  lived 
Scatteiingly  about  tliat   lonely  laud  of 

his. 
And  bade  them  to  a  ban([uet  of  farewells. 

And  Julian  made  a  solenm  feast  :  I 

never 
Sat  at  a  costlier  ;  for  all  round  his  hall 
From  column    on   to   column,   as  in  a 

wood. 
Not  such  as  here  —  an  equatorial  one. 
Great   garlands  swung  and  blossom'd  ; 

and  beneath, 
Heirlooms,  and  ancient  miracles  of  Art, 
Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that,  Heaven 

knows  when. 
Had  suck'd  the  fire  of  some  forgotten 

sun, 
And  kept  it  thro'  a  hundred  years  of 

gloom. 
Yet  glowing  in  a  heart  of  rub}^ —  cups 
Where  nymjili  and  god  ran  ever  round 

in  gold  — 
Others  of  glass  as  costly  — •  somo  with 

gems 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will. 
And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value,  — Ah 

heavens  ! 
Why  need  I  tell  you  all  ?  —  suffice  to 

say 
That  whatsoever  such  a  house  as  his. 
And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
AVas  brought  before  the  guest :  and  they, 

the  guests, 
Wonder'd  at  some  strange  light  in  Ju' 

lian's  eyes 


598 


THE  LOVER'S   TALE. 


(I  told    you   that   he   had   his  golden 

hour). 
And  such  a  feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seeni'd 
To  such   a  time,  to  Lionel's  loss  and 

his. 
And  that  lesolved  self-exile  from  a  land 
He  never  would  revisit,  such  a  feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev'n 

than  rich  — • 
But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a  king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the 

hall 
Two  great   funereal    curtains,    looping 

down. 
Parted  a  little  ere  they  met  the  floor, 
About  a  picture  of  his  lady,  taken 
Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the 

frame. 
And  just  above  the  parting  was  a  lamp  ; 
So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with 

night 
Seem'd  stepping  out  of  darkness  with  a 

smile. 

Well   then  —  our   solemn  feast  —  we 

ate  and  drank, 
And  might  — the  wines  being  of  such 

nobleness  — 
Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian's  eyes, 
And  something  weird  and  wild  about  it 

all  : 
What  was  it  ?  for  our  lover  seldom  spoke, 
Scarce  touch 'd  the  meats  ;  but  ever  and 

anon 
A  priceless  goblet  with  a  priceless  wine 
Arising,  show'd   he   diank  beyond   his 

use ; 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end,  he 

said : 

"There  is  a   custom  in  the   Orient, 
friends  — 
I  read  of  it  in  Persia  —  when  a  man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him,  he 

brings 
And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  accounts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 
This  custom  "  — 

Pausing  here  a  moment,  all 
The   guests   broke    in  upon    him  with 

meeting  hands 
And  cries  about  the  banquet  —  "  Beau- 
tiful ! 
Who   could   desire    more   beauty   at   a 
feast  ? " 


The  lover  answer'd,  "There  is  more 

than  one 
Here  sitting  who  desires  it.     Laud  me 

not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the  close. 
This  custom  steps  yet  further,  when  the 

guest 
Is  loved  and  honor'd  to  the  uttermost- 
For  after  he  hath  shown  him  gems  o: 

gold. 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rict 

guise 
That  which   is  thrice    as   beautiful   as 

these. 
The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his  heart — 
'  0  my  heart's  lord,  would  I  could  show 

you,'  he  saj's, 
'  Ev'n  my  heart,   too.'     And  I  projiose 

to-night 
To   show  you  what  is   dearest   to   my 

heart. 
And  my  heart  too. 

' '  But  solve  me  first  a  doubt. 
I  knew  a  man,  nor  many  years  ago  ; 
He  had  a  faithful  servant,  one  who  loved 
His  master  more  tlian  all  on  earth  be- 
side. 
He  falling  .'^ick,  and  seeming  close  on 

deatli. 
His  master  would  not  wait  until  he  died. 
But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from  the 

door, 
And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to  die. 
I  knew  another,  not  so  long  ago. 
Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took  him 

home. 
And  fed  and  cherish'd  him,  and  saved 

his  life. 
I  ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master 

claim 
His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to  i 

him 
Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved 

his  life  ? " 

This  question,   so  flung  down  befort 

the  guests, 
And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at 

length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law 

would  hold, 
Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  LioneL 

Fair  speech  was  his,  and  delicate  ol 
phrase. 
And  he  beginning  languidly  —  his  loss 


THE   LOVERS   TALE. 


599 


Weigh'd  on  him  yet  —  but  warming  as 

he  went, 
Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  it 

by, 

Affirming  that  as  long  as  -either  lived. 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  ai)d  gratefulness, 
The  service  of  the  one  so  savi-d  was  due 
All  to  the  saver  —  adding,  with  a  smile, 
The  first  for  many  weeks  —  a  semi-suiilo 
As  at  a  strong  conclusion  —  "  body  and 

soul 
And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his 

will." 

Then  Julian  made  a  secret  sign  to  me 
To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them  all. 
And  crossing  her   own    picture  as   she 

came. 
And  looking  as  much  lovelier  as  herself 
Is   lovelier   than   all    others  —  on    her 

head 
A  diamond  circlet,  and  from  under  this 
A  veil,  that  seemed  no  more  than  gilded 

air. 
Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern  gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  —  so,  with  that  grace 

of  hers. 
Slow-moving  as  a  wave  against  the  wind, 
That  flings  a  mist  behind  it  in  the  sun  — 
And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty 

babe. 
The  younger  Julian,    who   himself  was 

crown'd 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself  — 
And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the  jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flash'd,  for  he  had  decked 

them  out 
As  for  a  solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 
So  she  came  in  :  —  I  am  long  in  telling  it, 
I  never  yet  beheld  a  thing  so  strange, 
Sad,    sweet,    and    strange    together  — 

floated  in  — 
While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amazement 

rose  — 
And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall, 
Before  the  board,  there  paused  and  stood, 

her  breast 
Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her  feet, 
Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 
But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights  nor 

feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  e3'es  of  men  ;  who 

carsd 
Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewel'd 
world 


About  him,  look'd,  as  he  is  like  to  prove. 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he  saw. 

"  My  guests,"  said  Julian  :  "  you  are 

honor'd  now 
Ev'n  to  the  uttermost :  in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  tt 

me." 
Then  waving  us  a  sign  to  seat  ourselves 
I^ed  his  dear  lady  to  a  chair  of  state. 
And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  .saw  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice   in   a  second,  felt  him  tremble 

too. 
And  heard  him  muttering,  "  So  like,  so 

like  ; 
She  never  had  r.  sister.     I  knew  none. 
Some  cousin  cf  his  and  hers  —  0  God, 

so  like  !  " 
And  then  he  suddenly  ask'd  her  if  she 

were. 
She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down,  and 

was  dumb. 
And  then  .some  other  question'd  if  she 

came 
From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did  not 

speak. 
Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers  :  but  she 
To  all  their  queries  answer'd  not  a  word. 
Which  made  the  amazement  more,  till 

one  of  tiiem 
Said,  shuddering,  "  Her  spectre  !  "    But 

his  friend 
Replied,  in  half  a  whisper,  "  Not  at  least 
The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken  to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Prove,  as  1  almost  dread  to  find  her, 

dumb  ! " 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer'dall : 
"She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you  see 
That  faithful  servant  whom  we   spoke 

about. 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now ; 
Which  will  not  last.     I  have  here  to- 
night a  guest 
So  boundto  mebycommonloveand  loss — 
What !  .shall  I  bind  him  more  ?  in  his 

behalf. 
Shall  I  exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest 

to  me. 
Not  only  showing  ?  and  he  himself  pro- 
nounced 
That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to 
give. 


600 


THE  lover's  tale. 


"  Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all 

of  you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I  say  by  word 
Or  whisper,  while  I  show  you  all  my 

heart." 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  iiere  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 
The  passionate  moment  would  not  suffer 

that  — 
Past  thro'  his  visions  to  the  burial ;  thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his 

own  hall  ; 
And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his 

guests 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment ;  all  but 

he, 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell  again. 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  —  to  whom  he 

said: 

"Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for 

your  wife  ; 
And  were  it  only  for  the  giver's  sake, 
Andtho'  she  seem  so  like  the  one  you  lost. 
Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddenly, 
Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring  her 

back: 
I  leave  this  laud  forever."      Here  he 

ceased. 


Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one  hand, 
And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble  balie, 
He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 
And   there   the  widower    husband  and 

dead  wife 
Rush'd  each  at  each  with  a  cry,  that 

rather  seem'd 
For  some  new  death  than  for  a  life  renew'd ; 
AVhereat  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 
At  once  they  tuin'd,  and   caught   and 

brought  him  in 
To  their  charm'd  circle,  and,  half  killing 

him 
With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and  claspt 

again. 
But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  himself 
From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a  face 
All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life. 
And  love,  and  boundless  thanks—  the 

sight  of  this 
So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that,  turning 

to  me 
And  saying,  "  It  is  over  :  let  us  go"  — 
There   were    our   horses   ready  at   the 

doors  — 
We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mount- 
ing these 
He  past  forever  from  his  native  land  ; 
And  I  with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to  mine. 


TWO  GREETINGS. 


601 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 


TWO   GREETINGS. 
I. 

Oct  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 
Where  all  that  was  to  be  in  all  that  was 
Whiii'd  for  a  million  a^oiis  thro'  the  vast 
Waste   dawn   of   mnltitudiuous-eddving 

light  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 
Thro'  all  this  changing  world  of  change- 
less law. 
And  every  phase  of  ever-heightening  life. 
And    nine    long    months    of    antenatal 

gloom, 
With  this  last  moon,  this  crescent —  her 

dark  orb 
Touch'd  with  earth's  light  — thou  coniest, 

darling-  boy  ; 
Our  own;  a  babe  in  lineament  and  limb 
Perfect,  and  prophet  of  the  perfect  man ; 
Whose  face  and  form  are  her's  and  mine 

in  one, 
Indissolubly  married  like  our  love  ; 
Live  and  be  happy  in  thyself,  and  serve 
This  mortal  race  thy  kin  so  well  that 

men 
May  bless  thee  as  we  bless  thee,  O  young 

life. 
Breaking  with  laughter  from  the  dark, 

and  may 
The  fated  channel  where  thy  motion  lives 
Be  prosperously  shaped,  and  sway  thy 

course 
Along  the  years  of  haste  and  random 

youth 
Unshatter'd,  then  full-current  thro'  full 

man. 
And  last  in  kindly  curves,  with  gentlest 

fall,  ^ 

By  quiet  fields,  a  slowly -dying  power. 
To  that  last  deep  where  we  and  thou  are 

still. 

II. 


Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of   the 
deep, 


From  that  great  deep  before  our  world 

begins 
Whereon  the  Spirit  of  God  moves  as  he 

will  — 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the 

deep, 
From  that  true  world  within  the  world 

we  see, 
Whereof  our  world  is  but  the  bounding 

shore  — 
Out  of  the  deep.  Spirit,  out  of  the  deep, 
With  this  ninth  moon  that  sends   the 

hidden  sun 
Down  yon  dark  sea,  thou  comest,  darling 

boy. 


For  in  the  world  which  is  not  ours,  They 

said 
"Let   us  make   man"  and   that  which 

should  be  man, 
From  that  one  light  no  man  can   look 

upon. 
Drew  to  this  shore  lit  by  the  suns  and 

moons 
And   all   the   shadows.     O   dear  Spirit, 

half-lost 
In  thine  own  shadow  and  this  fleshly  sign 
That  thou  art  thou  —  who  wailest  being 

born 
And  banish 'd  into  mystery,  and  the  pain 
Of  this  divisible-indivisible  world 
Among  the  numerable-innumerable 
Sun,   sun,    and   sun,  thro'  finite-infinite 

space 
In  finite-infinite  time  —  our  mortal  veil 
And  shatter'd  phantom  of   that  infinite 

One, 
Who  made  thee  unconceivably  thyself 
Out  of  His  whole  World-self  and  all  in 

all- 
Live  thou,  and  of  the  grain  and  husk,  the 

grape 
And  ivyberry,  choose  ;  and  still  depart 
From  death  to  death  thro'  life  and  life. 

and  find 
Nearer  and  ever  nearer  Him  who  wrought 
Not  Matter,  nor  the  finite-infinite, 
But  this  main  miracle,  that  thou  art  thou, 
With  power  on  thine  own  act  and  on  the 

world. 


602 


THE   HUMAN   CRY. 


THE  HUMAN  CRY. 

I. 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —Halleluiah  !  — 

Infiuite  Ideality  ! 

Immeasurable  Reality ! 

Infinite  Personality  ! 

Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah ! 


n. 


We  feel  we  are  nothing —  for  all  is  Thou 

and  in  Thee  ; 
We  feel  we  are  something  —  that  also  has 

come  from  Thee ; 
We  are  nothing,  0   Thou  —  but  Thou 

wilt  help  us  to  be. 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah ! 


THE  FIRST   QUARREL. 


603 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO  ALFRED  TENNYSON, 

MY    GRANDSON 

Qolden-Hair"d  Ally  whose  name  is  one  with  mine, 

Crazy  with  laughter  and  babble  and  earth's  new  wine, 

Now  that  the  tiower  of  a  year  and  a  half  is  thine, 

0  little  blossom,  0  mine,  and  mine  of  mine, 

Glorious  poet  who  never  hast  written  a  line. 

Laugh,  for  the  name  at  the  head  of  my  verse  is  thhie. 

May'st  thou  never  be  wrong'd  by  the  name  that  is  mine! 


THE  FIEST  QUARREL. 
(in  the  isle  of  wight.) 


"Wait  a  little,"  you  say,  "you  are  sure 

it  '11  all  come  rlKlit," 
But  the  boy  was  born  i'  tiouble,  au'  looks 

so  wan  an'  so  wliite : 
Wait !  an'  once  I  ha'  waited  —  I  had  n't 

to  wait  for  long. 
Now  I  wait,  wait,  wait  for  Harry.  —  No, 

no,  you  are  doing  me  wrong  ! 
Harry  and  I  were  married :  the  boy  can 

hold  up  his  head, 
The  boy  was  born  in  wedlock,  but  after 

my  man  was  dead  ; 
I  ha'  work'd  for  liim  fifteen  years,  an'  I 

work  an'  I  wait  to  the  end. 
I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  an'  you  are 

my  only  friend. 


Doctor,  if  you  can  wait,  I  '11  tell  you  the 

tale  o'  my  life. 
When  Harry  an'  I  were  children,  he  call'd 

me  his  own  little  wife  ; 
I  was  happy  when  I  was  with  him,  an' 

sorry  when  he  was  away, 
An'  when  we  play'd  together,  I  loved  him 

better  than  play ; 
He  workt  me  the  daisy  chain —  he  made 

me  the  cowslip  ball, 
He  fought  the  boys  that  were  rude  an'  I 

loved  him  better  than  all. 
Passionate  girl  tho'  I  was,  an'  often  at 

home  in  disgrace, 
I  never  could  quarrel  with  Harry  —  1  had 

but  to  look  iu  his  face. 


There  was  a  farmer  in  Dorset  of  Harry's 

kin,  that  had  need 
Of  a  good  stout  lad  at  his  farm  ;  he  sent, 

an'  the  father  agreed  ; 
So  Harry  was  bound  to  the  Dorsetshire 

farm  for  years  an'  for  years  ; 
I  walked  with   him  down    to   the   quay, 

poor  lad,  an'  we  parted  in  tears. 
Tiie   boat   was    beginning  to   move,   we 

heard  tliem  a-riiigiiig  the  bell, 
"  I  '11  never  love  any  but  you,  God  bless 

you,  my  own  little  Nell." 


I  was  a  child,  an'  he  was  a  child,  an'  he 

came  to  harm ; 
There  was  a  girl,  a  hussy,  that  workt  with 

him  up  at  the  farm. 
One  had  deceived  her  an'  left  her  alone 

with  her  sin  an'  her  shame, 
And  so  she  was  wicked  with  Harry ;  the 

girl  w'as  the  most  to  blame. 


And  years  went  over  till  I  that  was  little 

had  grown  so  tall, 
The  men  would  say  of  the  maids  "  Our 

Nelly's  the  flower  of  'em  all." 
I  did  n't  take  heed  o'  them,  but  I  taught 

myself  all  I  could 
To  make  a  good  wife  for  Harry,  when 

Harry  came  home  for  good. 


Often  I  seem'd  unhappy,  and   often   as 

happy  too, 
For  1  heard  it  abroad  iu  the  fields  "  I  '11 

never  love  any  but  you  ;  " 


604 


THE   FIRST   QUARREL. 


'  I  '11  never  love  any  but  you  "  the  morn- 
ing song  of  the  lark, 

'  I  'II  never  love  any  but  you  "  the  night- 
ingale's hymn  in  the  dark. 


And  Harry  came  home  at  last,  but  he 

look'd  at  me  sidelong  and  shy, 
Vext   me  a  bit,  till  he  told   me  tiiat  so 

many  years  had  goue  by, 
I  had  grown  so  liandsonie  and  tall  — that 

1  might  ha'  forgot  him  somehow  — 
For  he  thought  —  there  were  other  lads  — 

he  was  fear'd  to  look  at  me  now. 


Hard  was  the  frost  in  the  field,  we  were 

married  o'  Christmas  day, 
Married  among  the  red  berries,  an'  all  as 

merry  as  May  — 
Those  were  the  pleasant  times,  my  house 

an'  my  m;in  were  my  pride. 
We  seeni'd  like  ships  i'  the  Channel  a- 

sailiug  with  wind  an'  tide. 


But  work  wns  scant  in  the  Isle,  tho'  he 
tried  the  villages  round, 

So  Harry  went  over  the  Solent  to  see  if 
work  could  be  found  ; 

An'  he  wrote  "  I  ha'  six  weeks'  work,  lit- 
tle wife,  so  far  as  I  know  ; 

I'll  come  for  an  hour  to-morrow,  an'  kiss 
you  before  I  go." 


So  I  set  to  righting  the  house,  for  was  n't 

he  coming  that  day  ? 
An'  I  hit  on  an   old  deal-box   that  was 

pusb'd  in  n  coi-ner  away. 
It  was  full  of  old  odds  an'  ends,  an'  a 

letter  along  wi'  the  re.st, 
I  had  better  ha'  put  my  naked  hand  in  a 

hornets'  nest. 


''  Sweetheart "  —  this  was  the  letter  — 

this  was  the  letter  I  read  — 
"  You  promised  to  find  me  work  near  you, 

an'  I  wish  I  was  dead  — 
Did  n't  you  kiss   me   an'  promise  ?   you 

have  n't  done  it  my  lad. 
An'  I  almost  died  o'  your  going  away,  an' 

I  wish  that  I  had." 


I  too  wish  that  I  had  —  in  the  pleasant 
times  that  had  past, 

Before  I  quarrell'd  with  Harry  —  my  quar- 
rel —  the  first  an'  the  last. 


For  Harry  came  in,  an'  I  flung  him  the 

letter  that  drove  me  wild, 
An'  he  told  it  me  all  at  once,  as  simple 

as  any  child, 
"  What  can  it  matter,  my  lass,  what  I  did 

wi'  ni}'  single  life  ? 
I  ha'  been  as  true  to  you  as  ever  a  man  to 

his  wife ; 
An'  she  was  n't  one  o'  the  worst."  "  Then,'^ 

I  said,  "  I  'm  none  o'  the  best." 
An'  he   smiled  at   me,  "Ain't  you,  my 

love  ?     Come,  come,  little  wife,  let 

it  rest ! 
The  man  is  n't  like  the  woman,  no  need 

to  make  such  a  stir." 
But  he  anger'd  me  all   the   more,  an'  I 

said  "  You  were  keeping  with  her, 
When  I  was  a-loving  you  all  along  an' 

the  same  as  before." 
An'  he  did  n't  speak  for  a  while,  an'  he 

anger'd  me  more  and  more. 
Then  he  patted    my  hand  in   his  gentle 

way,  "  Let  bygones  be  !  " 
"  Bygones  !   you  kept   yours   hush'd,"  1 

said,  "  when  you  married  me ! 
Bygones  ma'  be  come-agains ;  an'  she  — 

in  her  shame  an'  her  sin  — 
You  '11  have  her  to  nurse  my  child,  if  I  die 

o'  my  lying  in  ! 
You  '11  make  her  its  second  mother  !    I 

hate  her  —  an'  I  hate  you  !  " 
Ah,  Harry,  my  man,  you  iiad  better  ha' 

beaten  me  black  an'  blue 
Than  ha'  spoken  as  kind  as  you  did,  when 

I  were  so  crazy  wi'  spite, 
"  Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it  'II 

all  come  right." 


An'  he  took  three  turns  in  the  rain,  an'  I 

watch'd  him,  au'  when  he  came  in 
I  felt  that  my  heart  was  hard,  he  was  all 

wet  thro'  to  the  .skin, 
An'  I  never  said  "  off  wi'  the  wet,"  I  never 

said  "  on  wi'  the  dry," 
So  I  knew  my  heart  was   hard,  when  he 

came  to  bid  me  good-by. 
"  You  said  that  you  hated  me,  Ellen,  but 

that  is  n't  true,  you  know  ; 
I  am  going  to  leave  you  a  bit  — you  '11  kiss 

me  before  I  go  1 " 


RIZPAH. 


605 


"Going!  you  're  going  to  her  —  kiss  her 

—  if  you  will,"  I  said,  — 
I  was  near  my  time  wi'  the  boy,  I  must 

ha'  been  light  i'  my  liead  — 
"  I  had  sooner  be  cursed  than  kiss'd  !  "  — 

I  did  n't  know  well  what  I  meant. 
But  1  turn'd  my  face  from  him,  an'  he 

turn'd  his  face  an'  he  went 


And  then  he  sent  me  a  letter,  "  I've  got- 
ten my  work  to  do  ; 

Yoi".  would  n't  kiss  me,  my  lass,  an'  I 
never  loved  any  i~ut  you  ; 

I  am  sorry  for  all  the  quarrel  an'  sorry 
for  what  she  wrote, 

I  ha'  six  weeks'  work  in  Jersey  an'  go  to- 
night by  the  boat." 


An'  the  wind  began  to  rise,  an'  I  thought 

of  him  out  at  sea. 
An'  I  felt  I  had  been  to  blame ;  he  was 

always  kind  to  me. 
"Wait  a  little,  my  lass,  I  am  sure  it  '11 

all  come  right  "  — 
An' the  boat  went  down  that  m'giit  —  the 

boat  went  down  that  night. 


RIZPAH. 
17—. 

I. 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over 
land  and  sea  — 

And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  "  O  moth- 
er, come  out  to  me." 

Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he 
knows  that  I  cannot  go  ? 

For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and 
the  full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 


We  should  be  seen,  my  dear  ;  they  would 

spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and    the 

storm  rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am 

led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain. 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  lilf  T 

find  myself  drenched  with  the  rain. 


Any  thing  fallen  again  ?  nay  —  what  was 

there  left  to  fall  ? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  numher'd 

the  bones,  I  have  hidden  them  all. 
What  am  I  saying?  and  whiit  are  you9 

do  von  come  as  a  spy  1 
Falls  •?  wliat  falls  ?  who  k)i'ows  ?    As  the 

tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 


Who  let  her  in  ?  how  long  has  she  been? 

you  —  what  have  you  heard? 
Why  did  you  sit  .so  quiet  (  you  never  have 

spoken  a  word. 
O  —  to  pray  with  nie  —  yes  —  a  lady  — 

none  of  their  spies  — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart, 

and  begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 


Ah  —  yon,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what 

should  ifOH  know  of  the  night, 
The  blast  and  the  burning;-  shame  and  the 

bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 
I  have  (lone  it.  while  you  were  asleep  — 

you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together  —  and 

now  you  may  go  your  way. 


Nay  —  for  it 's  kind  of  you.  Madam,  to  sit 

by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have 

only  an  hour  of  life 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he 

went  out  to  die. 
"  They  dared  me  to  do  it,"  he  said,  and 

he  never  has  told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once 

when  he  was  but  a  child  — 
"  The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,"  ha  said; 

he  was  always  so  wild  — 
And  idle  —  and   couldn't   be   idle  —  my 

Willy  —  he  never  could  rest 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a  sol- 
dier, he  would  have  been  one  of 

his  best. 


But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates, 
and  they  never  would  let  him  be 
good ; 

The\  swoie  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail, 
and  he  swore  that  he  would ; 


606 


RIZPAH. 


And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one 
pur.se,  and  when  all  was  clone 

He  flun<j;'  it  among-  his  fellows  —  I  '11  none 
of  it,  said  my  sou. 


I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the 

lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth  —  but  tliey  liill'd  him, 

they   kill'd    him   for   robbing   the 

mail. 
They  hang'd   him  in  chains  for  a  show 

—  we  had   always   borne   a  good 

name  — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief —  and  then  put 

away  —  is  n't  that  enough  shame  'f 
Dust  to  dust  —  low  down — let  us  hide! 

but  they  set  liim  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare 

at  him,  passing  b3^ 
God  '11  pardon  the  hell-black  raven  and 

horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But   not  the  black  heart  of   the  lawyer 

who  kill'd  him   and   hang'd  him 

there. 


And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.  I  had 
bid  him  my  last  good-by  ; 

They  had  fasten'd  the  door  of  his  cell. 
"  O  mother  ! "  I  heard  him  cry. 

I  could  n't  get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had 
something  further  to  say, 

And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.  The  jail- 
er forced  me  away. 


Then  since  I  couldn't  but  hear  that  cry 
of  my  boy  that  was  dead, 

They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up  :  they 
fasten'd  me  down  on  my  bed. 

"  Motht'r,  O  raoiher  !  "  —  he  call'd  in  the 
dark  to  me  year  after  year  — 

They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me  — 
you  know  that  I  could  n  't  but  hear ; 

And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 

They  kt  me  abroad  again  —  but  the  crea- 
tures had  worked  their  will. 


Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of 

my  bone  was  left  — 
1  Stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers —  and 

you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft  ?  — 


My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me, 
the  bones  that  had  laughed  and 
had  cried  — 

Theirs  ?  O  no  !  they  are  mine  —  not  theirs 
—  they  had  moved  in  my  side. 


Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones? 

I  kiss'd  'em,  I  buried  'em  all  — 
I  can't  diy  deep,  1  am  old —  in  the  night 

by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My   Willy '11    rise   up   whole   when   the 

trumpet  of  judgment  'i.l  sound, 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid 

him  in  holy  grouud. 


They  would  scratch  him  up  —  they  would 

hang  him  again  on  the  cursed  tree. 
Sin  ?     O  yes  —  we  arc  sinners,  I  know  — 

let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's 

good  will  toward  men  — 
"Full  of    compassion   and    mercy,    the 

Lord  "  —  let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
"Full  of  compassion  and  mercy  —  long. 

suffering."     Yes,  0  yes  ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder^ 

the  Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He  'II  never  jiut  on  the  black  cap  except 

for  the  worst  of  the  worst. 
And  the  first  may  be  last  —  I  have  heard 

it  in  church  — and  the  last  may  be 

first. 
Suffering  —  O    long-suffering  —  yes,    as 

the  Lord  must  know. 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind 

and  the  shower  and  the  snow. 


Heard,  have  you  ?  what  ?  they  have  told 
you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 

How  do  they  know  it !  are  they  his  moth- 
er ?  are  i/oii  of  his  kin  ■? 

Heard  !  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the 
.'^torm  on  the  downs  began, 

The  wind  that'll  wail  like  a  child,  and  the 
sea  that  '11  moan  like  a  man  ? 


Election,  Election  and  Reprobation  —  it's 

all  very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall 

not  find  him  in  HelL 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


607 


For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the 
Lord  has  look'cJ  into  my  care, 

And  He  meaus  me,  I  'm  sure,  to  be  happy 
with  Willy,  I  kuow  uot  where. 


And  if  he  be  lost  —  but  to  save  viy  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire  : 
Do  you  tliiuk.  that  I  care  for  viy  soul  if 

my  boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark  —  go, 

go,  you  may  leave  nw  alone  — 
You  never  liave  borne  a  child  —  you  are 

just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 


Madam,  T  beg  your  pardon  !  I  think  that 

you  mean  to  be  kind, 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 

Willy's  voice  in  the  wind  — 
The  snow  ami  the  sky  so  bright  —  he  used 

but  to  call  iu  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church 

aud    uot  from   the    gibbet  —  for 

hark  ! 
Nay — you    can    hear  it  yourself  —  it  is 

coming  —  shaking  the  walls  — 
Willy  —  the  moon  's  in  a  cloud Good 

night.     I  am  goiug.     He  calls. 


THE  NORTHERN  COBBLER. 


Waait  till  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur  thou 

num  a'  sights'  to  tell. 
Eh,  but  I  be  niaiiin  glad  to  seea  tha  sa 

'arty  an"  well. 
"  Castawaiiy  on  a  disolut  land  wi'  a  var- 

tical  soon  !  "  ■^ 
Strange  fur  togoafur  to  think  what  saail- 

ors  a'  scean  an'  a'  doon  ; 
"  Suiumat  to  drink  —  sa'  'ot  ?  "  I  'a  nowt 

hut  Adam's  wine  : 
What 's  the  'eat  o'  this  little  'ill-side  to 

the  'eat  o'  the  line  ? 

*  The  vowels  ai,  pronounced  separately,  though 
in  the  closest  conjunction,  best  render  the  sound 
of  the  long  i  and  y  in  this  dialect  But  since  such 
words  as  craiin' ,  t/aein',  whni,  ai  (I),  etc.,  look 
awkward  except  in  a  page  of  express  phonetics, 
I  have  thought  it  better  to  leave  the  simple  /  and 
y,  and  to  trust  that  my  readers  'viU  give  them 
the  broader  pronunciation. 

*  The  oo  shoitj  &»  in  "  wood." 


"  What 's  i'  tha  bottle  a-stanning  theer  ?  " 

I  '11  tell  tha.     Gin. 
But  if  thou  wants  thy  grog,  tha  muu  goa 

fur  it  down  to  the  inn. 
Naay  —  fur  1  be  maain-glad,  but  thaw  tha 

was  iver  sa  dry. 
Thou  gits  naw  gin  fro'  the  bottle  theer 

an'  I  '11  tell  tha  why. 


Mea  an'  thy  sister  was  married,  when  wur 

it  7  back-end  o'  June, 
Ten  year  sin',  aud  wa  'greed  as  well  as  a 

fiddle  i'  tune  : 
I  could  fettle  and  clump  ow^d  booots  and 

shoes  wi'  the  best  on  'em  all. 
As   fer  as   fro'    Thursby   tliurn   hup  to 

Harmsby  and   Hutterby  Hall. 
We  w-as  busy  as  beeas  i'  the  bloom  an'  as 

'appy  as  'art  could  think, 
An'  then"  the  babby  wur  burn  and  then  I 

taiikes  to  the  drink. 


An'  I  weiint  gaainsaay  it,  my  lad,  thaw  I 

be  hafe  shaanied  on  it  now, 
We  could  sing  a  good  song  at  the  Plow,  we 

could  sing  a  good  song  at  the  Plow ; 
Thaw  once  of  a  frosty  night  I  slither'd 

an'  hurtcd  my  buck, 8 
An'  I  coom'd    ncck-an-crop   soometimes 

slaiipe  down  i'  the  squad  an'  the 

muck  : 
An'  once  I  fowt  wi'  the  Taailor —  not  hafe 

ov  a  man,  my  lad  — 
Fur  he  scrawm'd  an'  scrattcd  my  faace 

like  a  cat,  an'  it  maade  'er  sa  mad 
TlKit  Sally  she  turn'd  a  tongue-baugcr,* 

an'  raatcd  ma,  "  Sottin'  thy  braains 
Guzzlin'  an'  soakin'  an'  sinoakin'  an'  haw- 

min'  5  about  i'  the  laanes, 
Soa  sow-droonk  that  tha  doesii  not  touch 

thy  'at  to  the  Squire  ;  " 
An'  I  loook'd  cock-eyed  at  my  uoase  an' 

I  seead  'im  a-gittin'  o'  fire  ; 
But  sin'  I  wur  hallus  i'  liquor  an'  hallus 

as  drnonk  as  a  king, 
Foalks'  coostom  flitted  awnay  like  a  kite 

wi'  a  brokken  string. 


An'  Sally  she  wesh'd  foalks'  cloaths  to 
keep  the  wolf  fro'  the  door, 

Eh  but  the  moor  she  riled  me,  she  druv 
me  to  drink  the  moor, 
*  Hip.  *  Scold.  "  Loungiag. 


608 


THE  NORTHERN   COBBLER. 


Fur  I  fun',  when  'er  back  wur  tiirn'd, 
whecr  Sally's  ovvd  stockin'  wur 
'id, 

An'  I  grabb'd  the  munny  she  niaade,  and 
I  wear'd  it  o'  liquor,  I  did. 


An'  one  ni<;;ht  I  cooms  'oam  like  a  bull 

gotten  loose  at  a  f;iair, 
An'  she  wur  a-waaitiu'  fo'mma,  an'  cryin' 

an'  tearin'  'er  'aair, 
An'  I  tumiiiled   atiuirt   the   craadle   an' 

swear 'd  as  I  'd  break  ivry  stick 
O'  furnitur  'ere  i'  the  'oiise,  an'  I  gied 

our  SmIIv  a  kick, 
An'  I  inash'd  the  taables  an'  chairs,  an' 

slie  an'  the  babby  beal'd,  ^ 
Fur  I  kniiw'd  naw  moor  what  I  did  nor  a 

mortal  beast  o'  the  feald. 


An'  when  I  waaked  i'  the  murnin'  I  seead 

tliat  our  Sally  wtnt  laained 
Cos'  o'  the  kick  as  I  gied  'er,  an'  I  wur 

dreadful  ashaamed  ; 
An'    Sally    wur    sloomy  i    an'    draggle- 

taail'd  in  an  owd  turn  gown, 
An'  the  babby's  faace  wurn't  wesh'd  an' 

the  'ole  'ouse  hupside  down. 


An'  then  I  minded  our  Sally  sa  pratty 

an'  neat  an  sweejit, 
Straat  as  a  pole  an'  clean  as  a  flower  fro' 

'cad  to  feejit  : 
An'  then  I  minded  the  fust  kiss  I  gied  'er 

by  Thursby  thurn ; 
Theer  wur  a  lark  a-singin'  'is  best  of  a 

Sunday  at  murn. 
Could  n't  .see  'im,  we  'eard  'ima-mountin' 

oop  'igher  an'  'igiier, 
An'  then  'e  turn'd  to  the  sun,  an'  'e  shined 

like  a  sparkle  o'  fire. 
''  Does  n't  tha  see  'im,"  she  axes,  "  fur  I 

can  see  'im  1  "  an'  I 
Seead   nobbut    the    smile   o'  the   sun  as 

danced  in  'er  pratty  blue  eye ; 
An'  I  says  "  I  mun  gie  tha  a  kiss,"  an' 

S.ally  says  "  Noil,  thou  moant," 
But  I  gied  'er  a  kiss,  an'  tlien  auoother, 

an'  Sally  says  "  doant !  "' 

1  Bellowed,  cried  out. 

2  Sluggish,  out  of  spiritB- 


An'  when  we  coom'd  into  Meeatin',  at 

fust  site  wur  all  in  a  teiv. 
But,  arter,  we  siug'd  the  'ymu  togithci 

like  birds  on  a  beugh  ; 
An'  Muggins  e' preach'd  o'  Hell-fire  an' 

the  loov  o'  God  fur  men. 
An'  then  upo'  coomiu'  awaay  Sally  gied 

me  a  kiss  ov  'ersen. 


Heer  wur  a  fall  fro'  a  kiss  to  a  kick  like 

Snatan  as  fell 
Down  out  o'  heaven  i'  Hell-fire  —  thaw 

theer  's  naw  drinkin'  i'  Hell ; 
Mea  fur  to  kick  our   Sally  as   kep'  the 

wolf  fro'  the  door. 
All  along  o'  the  drink,  fur  I  loov'd  'er  as 

well  as  afoor. 


Sa  like  a  graat  num  cumpus  I  blubber'd 

awaay  o'  the  bed  — 
"  Weant   niver   do   it   naw  moor ;  "  an' 

Sally  looi'ikt  up  an'  she  said, 
"  I  '11  npowd  it  ^  tha  weant ;  thou  'rt  laike 

the  rest  o'  the  men, 
Thou  '11  goa  suiffin'  about  the  tap  till  tha 

does  it  agean. 
Theer 's  thy  hennemy,  man,  an'  I  knaws, 

as  knaws  tha  sa  well. 
That,   if    tha    secas  'im   an'  smells  'im 

tha  '11  foller  'im  slick  into  Hell." 


"  Naiiy,"  says  I,  "  fur  I  weant  goa  sniffin 

about  the  tap." 
"  Weant  tha  1  "  she  says,  an'  mysen  I 

thowt  i'  mysen  "  mayhap." 
"  Noa  :  "  an'  I  started  awaay  like  a  shot, 

an'  down  to  the  Hinn, 
An'  I  browt  what  tha  seeas  stannin'  theer' 

yon  big  black  bottle  o'  gin. 


"  That  caps  owt,"  *  says  Sally,  an'  saw  she 

begins  to  cry, 
But  I  puts  it  inteV  'er  'ands  an'  I  says 

to  'er,  "  Sally,"  says  I, 
"  Stan'  'im  theer  i'  the  naame  o'  the  Lord 

an'  the  power  ov  'is  Graace, 
Stan'  'im  theer,  fur  I  '11  look  my  hennemy 

strait  i'  the  faace, 

8  I  "11  uphold  it. 

*  That  s  beyond  everything 


THE   SISTERS. 


609 


•Stan'  'im  theer  i'  the  winder,  an'  let  ma 

loook  at  'im  tlien, 
'E  seeaiiis  iiaw  moor  nor  watter,  an  'e  's 

the  Divil's  oan  sen." 


An'  I  wur  down  i'  tha  mouth,  could  n't 

do  naw  work  an'  nil. 
Nasty  an'  sn;iggy  an'  shaaky,  an'  poonch'd 

my  'ami  wi'  the  bawl, 
But  she  war  a  jiower  o'  coomfut,  an'  sat- 

tled  'crsen  o'  my  knee, 
An'  coaxd  an'  coodled  me  oop  till  agoan 

I  feel'd  mvseu  free. 


An'  Sally  she  tell'd  it  about,  and  foalk 

stood  a-gawmiu'  i  in, 
As  thaw  it  wur  sumniat  bewitch'd  i>tead 

of  a  quart  o'  gin  ; 
An'  some  on  'iin  said  it  wur  watter  —  an' 

I  wur  chou>in'  the  wife. 
Fur  I  coulil  n't  'owd  'ands  off  gin,  were  it 

nol)l)ut  to  saave  my  life  : 
An'  blacksmith  'e  stri|)s  me  the  thick  ov 

'is  airm,  an'  'e  shaws  it  to  me, 
"  Feeal  thou  this  !  thou  can't  graw  this 

upo'  watter  !  "  says  he. 
An'  Doctor  'c  calls  o'  Sunday  an'  just  as 

caudles  was  lit, 
"Thou  moant  do  it,"  he  says,  "  tha  mun 

breiik  'im  off  bit  by  bit." 
"  Thou    'rt    but   a   Methody-mau,"  says 

Parson,  and  lailys  down  'is  'at, 
An'  'e  points  to  the  bottle  o'  gin,  "  Ijut  I 

respecks  tha  fur  that ;  " 
An'  Squire,  his  oan  very  sen,  walks  down 

fro'  the  'AH  to  see. 
An'  'e  spanks  'is  'and  into  mine,  "  fur  I 

respecks  tha,"  says  'e  ; 
An'  coostom  ageiin  draw'd  in  like  a  wind 

fro'  far  an'  wide, 
Au'  browt  me  the  booiJts  to  be  cobbled 

fro'  hafe  the  cooutryside. 


An'  theer  'e  stans  an'  theer  'e  shall  stan 

to  my  dying  daay  ; 
I  'a  gotten  to  loov  'im  agean  in  anoother 

kind  of  a  waay. 
Proud  on  'im,  like,  my  lad,  an'  I  keeaps 

'im  clean  an'  brii:ht, 
Loovs  'im,  an'  roobs  'im,  an'  doosts  'im, 

an'  puts  'im  back  i'  the  light. 

'■  Staring  vacantly 


XVIt. 

Would  n't  a  pint  a  sarved  as  well  as  a 

quart  ?     Naw  doubt : 
But  I  liked  a  bigger  feller  to  fight  wi'  an' 

fowt  it  out. 
Fine  an'  meller  'e  mun  be  by  this,  ii  I 

cared  to  taaste. 
But  I  moant,  my  lad,  and  1  weant,  fur 

1  'd  feal  mysen  clean  disgraaced. 

XVIII. 

Au'  once  I  .said  to  the  Missis,  "  My  lass, 

when  I  cooms  to  die. 
Smash  the  bottle  to  sinitliers,  the  Divil  'a 

in  'im,"  said  I. 
But  arter  I  chaiingcd  my   mind,  an'   if 

Sally  be  left  aloiin, 
I '11  hev  'im  aburied  wi'mma  an'  taake 

'im  afoor  the  Tliroan. 


Coom   thou    'ler  —  yon    laiidy  a-steppin' 

along  the  sticeat, 
Doesn't  tha  knaw  'er  —  .'^a  pratty,  an' 

feat,  ail'  ueiit,  an'  sweciit  V 
Look  at  the  cloiiths  on  \r  back,  thebbe 

ainmost  spick-span-new, 
An'   Tommy's  faace  is  as  fresh  as  a  cod- 

liu  'at  's  wesh'd  'i  the  dew. 


'Ere  our  Sally  an'  Tommy,  an'  we  be  a- 

goin'  to  dine, 
Baacon  an*  taates,  an'  a  beslings-puddin'  '•* 

an'  Adam's  wine ; 
But  if  tha  wants  ony  grog  tha  mun  goa 

fur  it  down  to  the  Hinn, 
Fur  I  weant  shed  a  drop  on  'is  blood,  noa, 

not  fur  Sally's  oan  kin. 


THE  SISTERS. 

They  have  left  the  doors  ajar;  and  by 

their  clash. 
And   prelude   on   the  keys,  I  knovr   the 

song, 
Their    favorite  —  which    I  call    "  The 

Tables  Turned." 
Evelyn  begins  it  "  O  diviner  Air." 

EVELYN. 

0  diviner  Air, 

Thro'  the  heat,  the  drowth,  the  dust, 
the  glare, 

'  A  pudding  made  with  the  first  mili  of  the 
cow  after  calving. 


610 


THE   SISTERS. 


Far  from  out  the  west  in  shadowing 

showers, 
Over  all  the  meadow  baked  and  bare, 
Making  fresh  and  fair 
All  the  bowers  and  tiie  flowers. 
Fainting  flowers,  faded  bowers, 
Over  all  this  wearv  world  of  ours, 
Breathe,  diviner  Air  ! 

A  sweet  voice  that  —  j-ou  scarce  could 

better  that. 
Now  follows  Edith  echoing  Evelyn. 


O  diviner  Light, 

Thro'  the  cloud  that  roofs  our  noon 
with  night. 

Thro'  the  blotting  mist,  the  blinding 
showers, 

Far  from  out  a  sky  forever  bright. 

Over  all  the  woodland's  flooded  bow- 
ers. 

Over  all  the  meadow's  drowning  flow- 
ers, 

Over  all  this  ruiu'd  word  of  ours, 

Break,  diviner  Light  ! 

Marvellously   like,   their  voices  —  and 

themselves ! 
Tho'  one  is  somewhat  deeper   than  the 

other. 
As   one   is   somewhat    graver    than   the 

other  — 
Edith  than  Evelyn.     Your  good  Uncle, 

whom 
You  count  the  father  of  your  fortune, 

longs 
For  this  alliance  :  let  me  ask  yoii  then, 
Which  voice  most  takes  you  ?  for  I  do  not 

doubt 
Being  a  watchful  parent,  you  are  taken, 
With  one  or  other  :  tho'  sometimes  I  fear 
You  may  be   flickering,    fluttering   in   a 

doubt 
Between  the  two  —  which  must  not  be  — 

which  might 
Be  death  to  one  :  they  both  are  beautiful : 
Evelyn  is  gayer,  wittier,  prettier,  says 
The  common  voice,  if  one  may  trust  it  : 

she  ? 
No  !  but  the  paler  and  the  graver,  Edith. 
Woo  her  and  gain  her  then :  no  waver- 
ing, boy  ! 
The  graver  is  perhaps  the  one  for  you 
Who  jest  and  laugh   so   easilv   and   so 

well. 
For  love  will  go  by  contrast,  as  by  likes. 


No  sisters  ever  prized  each  other  more. 
Not  so :  their  mother  and  her  sister  loved 
More  passionately  still. 

But  that  my  best 
And  oldest  friend,  your  Uncle,  wishes  it, 
And  that  I  know  you  worthy  every  way 
To  be   my  son,  I  might,  perchance,  be 

loath 
To  part  them,  or  part  from  them :  and 

yet  one 
Should  marry,  or  all  the  broad  lands  it 

your  view 
From  this  bay  window  —  which  our  house 

has  held 
Three  hundred  years  —  will  pass  coUat 

eraliy. 

My  father  with  a  child  on  either  knee, 

A  hand  upon  the  head  of  either  child. 

Smoothing  their  locks,  as  golden  as  his 
own 

Were  silver,  "  get  them  wedded  "  would 
he  say. 

And  once  my  prattling  Edith  ask'd  him 
"  why  ?  " 

Av,  whv  ?  said  he,  "for  why  should  I  go 
lame  ?  " 

Then  told  them  of  his  wars,  and  of  his 
wound. 

For  see  —  ^his  wine  —  the  grape  from 
whence  it  flow'd 

Was  blackening  on  the  slopes  of  Portug'il, 

When  that  brave  soldier,  down  the  ter- 
rible ridge 

Plunged  in  the  last  fierce  charge  at  Wa- 
terloo, 

And  caught  the  laming  bullet.  He  left 
me  this. 

Which  yet  retains  a  memory  of  its  youth. 

As  I  of  mine,  and  my  first  passion. 
Come ! 

Here  's  to  your  happv  union  with  my 
child ! 

Yet  must  you  change  your  name  :  no 

fault  of  mine! 
Yon  s;)y  that  you  can  do  it  as  willingly 
As  birds  make  ready  for  their  bridal-time 
By  change  of  feather :  for  all  that,  my  boy 
Some  birds  are  sick  and  sullen  when  they 

molt. 
An  old  and  worthy  name  !  but  mine  that 

stirr'd 
Among  our  civil  wars  and  earlier  too 
Among  the  Eoses,  the  more  venerable. 
/  care  not  for  a  name  —  no  fault  of  mine 
Once  more  —  a   happier  marriage  than 

my  own ! 


THE   SISTERS. 


611 


You  see  yon  Lombard  poplar  on  the 

plain. 
The   highway   running   by    it    leaves    a 

breadth 
Of  sward  to  left  and  right,  where,  long 

ago, 
One  bright  May  morning  in  a  world  of 

pong, 
I  lay  at  leisure,  watching  overhead 
The  aerial  poplar  wave,  an  amber  sf)ire. 

A  dozed  ;  I  woke.     An  open  landaulet 
Whirl'd  by,  which,  after  it  had  past  me, 

.sliow'd 
Turning   my  way,  the  loveliest  face  on 

earth. 
The  face  of  one  there  sitting  opposite. 
On  whom  I  brought  a  strange  unhajipi- 

ness, 
That  time  I  did  not  see. 

Love  at  first  sight 
May  seem  — with  goodly  rhyme  and  rea- 
son for  it  — 
Possible  —  at  first  glimpse,  and    for   a 

face 
Gone  in  a  moment  —  strange.    Yet  once, 

when  first 
I  came  on  lake  Llanberris  in  the  dark, 
A    moonless    night    with    storm  —  one 

lightning-fork 
Flash 'd  out  the  lake ;  and  tho'  I  loiter'd 

there 
The  full  day  after,  yet  in  r'^trospect 
That  less  than  momentary  thunder-sketch 
Of  lake  and   mountain  coiKjiiers  all  the 
day. 

The  Sun  himself  Ims  limn'd  the  face 

foi"  me. 
Not  quite  so  quickly,  no,  nor  half  as  well. 
For  look  you  here  —  the  shadows  are  too 

deep, 
And  like  the  critic's  blurring  comment 

make 
The  veriest  beauties  of  the  wo:k  appear 
The  darkest  faults :  the  sweet  eyes  frown  ; 

the  lips 
Seem  but  a  gash.     My  sole  memorial 
Of  Edith  —  no  the  other,  —  both  indeed 

So  that  bright  face  was  fiash'd  thro' 

sense  and  soul 
And    by   the    poplar   vanish'd  —  to  be 

found 
Long  after,  as  it  seem'd,  beneath  the  tall 
Tree-bowers,    and    those    long-sweeping 

beechen  bousrhs 


Of  our  New  Forest.     T  was  there  alone  : 
The  phantom  of  the  whirling  landaulet 
Forever   past  me  by ;    when   one  quick 

peal 
Of  laughter  drew  me  thro'  the  glimmer- 
ing glades 
Down  to  the  snowlike  sparkle  of  a  cloth 
On   fern   and   foxglove.      Lo,    the   face 

again, 
My  Kosalind  in  this  Arden  —  Edit!;  —  all 
One  bloom  of  youth,  health,  beauty,  hap- 
piness, 
And  moved  to  merriment  at  a  passing- 
jest. 

There  one  of  those  about  her  knowing 

me 
Call'd  me  to  join  them;  so  with  these  I 

spout 
What  seem'd  my  crowning  hour,  my  day 

of  days. 
I  woo'd  her  then,  nor  unsuccessfully, 
The  worse  for  her,  for  me  !    was  I  con- 
tent ? 
Ay  —  no,  not  quite  ;  for  now  and  then  I 

thought 
Laziness,  vague  love-longings,  the  bright 

I^Iay, 
Had  made  a  heated  haze  to  magnify 
The    charm    of    Edith  —  that   a   man's 

ideal 
Is  high  in  heaven,  and  lodged  with  Plato's 

God, 
Not   findable   here  —  content,   and    not 

content. 
In  some  such  fiushion  as  a  tnan  may  be 
That  having  had  the  portrait  of  his  friend 
Drawn  by  an  artist,  looks  at  it,  and  says, 
"  Good  !  very  like !  not  altogether  he." 

As  yet   I  had   not  bound   myself  by 
words, 
Only,  believing  I  loved  f^ditb,  made 
Edith  love  me.   Then  came  the  dav  when 

I, 
Flattering  myself  that  all  my  doubts  were 

fools 
Born  of  the  fool  this  Age  that  doubts  of 

all  — 
Not  I  that  day  of  Edith's  love  or  mine  — 
Had  braced  mv  purpose  to  declare  my- 
self : 
I  stood  upon  the  stairs  of  Par.idise. 
The  golden  gates  would  0|  en  at  a  word. 
I  spoke  it  — told  her  of  my  passion,  seen 
And  lost  and  found  again,  had  got  so  far, 
Had  caught  her  hand,  her  eyelids  fell  -^ 
I  heard 


612 


THE  SISTERS. 


Wheels,  and  a  noise  of  welcome  at  the 

doors  — 
On  a  sudden  after  two  Italian  years 
Had  set  the  blo-sora  of  her  health  again, 
The  younyer   sister,  Evelyn,   enter'd  — 

there, 
There  was  the  face,  and  altogeilier  she. 
The   mother   feU   about   the    daughter's 

neck, 
The  sisters  closed  in  one  another's  arms. 
Their  people  tluoiiy'd  about  them  from 

the  hall, 
And  in  the  thick  of  question  and  reply 
I  fled  the  house,  driven  by  one  angel  face. 
And  all  the  Furies. 

I  was  bound  to  her  ; 
I  could  not  free  my.self  in  honor —  bound 
Not  by  the  sounded  letter  of  the  word. 
But    counter-pressures    of     the    yielded 

hand 
That  timorously  and  faintly  echoed  mine, 
Quick  blushes,  the  sweet  d'welling  of  her 

eyes 
Upon   me  when    she    thought   I  did  not 

see  — 
Were   these   not  bonds?    nay,  nay,  but 

could  I  wed  her 
Loving    the   other  1    do   her   that   greaV, 

wrong  ? 
Had   I  not  dream'd   I  loved  her  yester 

morn  ? 
Had  I  not  known  where  Love,  at  first  a 

fear, 
Grew  after  marriage  to  full  height  and 

form  ? 
Yet    after    marriage,    that    mock-sister 

there  — 
Brother-in-law  —  the    fiery    nearness    of 

it  — 
Unlawful  and  disloyal  brotherhood  — 
What  end  but  darkness  could  ensue  from 

this 
For  all  the  three  ?     So  Love  and  Honor 

jarr'd 
Tho'  Love  and  Honor  join'd  to  raise  the 

full 
High-tide  of  doubt  that  sway'd  me  up  and 

down 
Advancing  nor  retreating. 

Edith  wrote  : 
"My  motiier  bids  me  ask  "  (I  did  not  tell 

you  — 
A  widow  with  less  guile  than  many  a 

child. 
God  help  the  wrinkled  children  that  are 

Christ's 
As   well    as     the     plump    cheek  —  she 

wrought  us  hariA, 


Poor  soul,  not  knowing)  "  are  you  ill?  " 

(so  ran 
The  letter)  "you  have  not  been  hereof 

iate. 
You  will  not  find  me  here.  At  last  I  go 
On  that  long-promised  visit  to  the  North 
I  told  your  wayside  story  to  my  mother 
And  Evelvn.  She  remembers  you.  Fare- 
well. 
Pray  come  and  see  mv  mother.    Almost 

blind 
With    ever-growing    cataract,    yet     sIk 

thinks 
She   sees   you  when   she   hears.     Again 
farewell." 

Cold  words  from  one  I  had  hoped  to 

warm  so  far 
That   I   could  stamp  my  image   on  her 

heart ! 
"  Pray   come   and    see   my  mother,  and 

farewell." 
Cold,   but    as   welcome  as  free   airs  of 

heaven 
After    a    dungeon's    closeness.     Selfish, 

strange  ! 
What   dwarfs    are   men !    my   strangled 

vanity 
Utter'd  a  stifled  cry  —  to  have  vext  mv- 

self 
And  all  in  vain  for  her — cold  heart  or 

none  — 
No  bride  for  me.     Yet  so  my  path  was 

clear 
To  win  the  sister. 

Whom  I  woo'd  and  won. 

For  Evelyn  knew  not  of  my  former  suit. 

Because  the  simple  mother  work'd  upon 

By  Edith  pray'd  me  not  to  whisper  of 

it. 
And  Edith  would  be  bridesmaid  on  the 

day. 
But  on  that  day,  not  being  all  at  ease, 
I  from  the  altar  glancing  back  upon  her, 
Before  the  first  "I  will"  was  utter'd, saw 
The  bridesmaid  pale,  statuelike,  passion- 
less — 
"  No  harm,  no   harm,"  I  turned  again 

and  placed 
My  ring  upon  the  finger  of  my  bride. 

So,  when  we  parted,  Edith  spoke   no 

word. 
She  wept  no  tear,  but  round  my  Evelyn 

clung 
In  utter  silence  for  so  long,  I  thought 
'•'  What,  will    she  never  set  her    sister 

free  ? " 


THE   SISTERS. 


613 


We  left  her,  happy  each  in  ea:!li,  aad 

theu, 
Ab  tlio'  the  happiness  of  each  iu  each 
Were  not  enough,  must  fain  liave  tor- 
rents, lakes, 
Hills,  the  great  things  of  Nature  and  the 

fair. 
To  lift  u.s  as  it  were  from  comtnonplaee. 
And    help  us   to  our  joy.     Better   have 

.-eiit 
Our  Edith  thro'  the  jilories  of  the  earth. 
To  change  with  her  horizon,  if  true  Love 
Were  not  his  own  imperial  all-in-all. 
Far  off   we  v.'fnt.     My  God,  1  would 

not  live 
Save  that  I  think  this  gross  hard-seeming 

world 
Is  our  misshaping  vision  of  the  I'owers 
Behind  the  world,  that  make  our  griefs 

our  gains. 

For  on  the  dark  night  of  our  marriage- 
day 
The  great  Tragedian,  that  had  quench'd 

herself 
In  that  assumption  of  the  bridesmaid  — 

she 
That  loved    me  —  our  true  Edith  —  her 

brain  broke 
With  over-actini:,  till  she  rose  and  fled 
Beneath  a  pitiless  rush  of  Autumn  rain 
To  the  deaf  church  —  to  be  let  iu  —  to 

pray 
Before  that  altar —  so  I  thii:k  ;  and  there 
They  found  her  beating  the  hard  Prot- 
estant doors. 
She  died  and  she  was  buried  ere  wc  knew. 

I  If^arnt  it  first.     I  had  to  speak.     At 

once 
The  bright  qnick  smile  of  Evelyn,  that 

had  sunii'd 
The   morning  of   our  marriage,  passed 

away  : 
And  on  our  home-return  the  daily  want 
Of  Edith  in  the  house,  the  gaiden,  still 
Haunted  us  like  her  gho.st ;  and  by  and 

by, 
Either  from  that  necessity  for  talk 
Which  lives  with  blindness,  or  plain  in- 
nocence 
Of  nature,  or  desire  that  her  lost  child 
Should   earn   from   both   the   praise    of 

heroism. 
The    mother   broke  her   promise   to  the 

dead. 
And  told  the  living  daughter  with  what 

love 


Edith  had  welcomed  my  short  wooing  of 

her. 
And  all  her  sweet  self-sacrifice  and  death- 

Henceforth  that  mystic    bond  be'^^.vixt 

the  twins  — 
Did  I  not  tell  you  they  were  twins  ?  — 

prcvail'd 
So  far  that  no  caress  could  win  my  wile 
Back  to  that    pas>iouate  answc-r  of  fui! 

heart 
I  had  from    her   at  first.     Not  that  her 

love, 
Tho'  scarce  as  great  as  Edith's  power  of 

love, 
Had  lesseii'd,  but  the  mother's  garrulous 

wail 
Forever  wuke  the  unhappy  Past  again. 
Till  that  dead  bridesmaid,  meant  to  bo 

my  bride, 
Put  forth  cold  hands  between   us,  and  I 

fear'd 
The    verv    fountains    of    her    life   were 

chiil'd  ; 
So   took    her   thence,  and    brought    het 

here,  and  here 
She  bore  a   child,  .whom    reverently  we 

cali'd 
Ediih;  and  in  the  second  year  was  born 
A  second  —  this  I  named  from  her  own 

self, 
Evelyn  ;   then  two   weeks  —  no   more  — 

she  joined, 
In  and  beyond  the  grave,  that  one  she 

loved. 
Now  in  this  quiet  of  declining  life. 
Thro'  dreams  by  night  ami  trances  of  the 

day, 
The  sisters  glide  about  me  hand  in  hand, 
Both  beautiful  alike,  nor  can  I  tell 
One  from  the  other,  no,  nor  care  to  tell 
One   from    the    other,   only    know    they 

come. 
They  smile  upon  me,  till,  remembering 

all 
The  love  they  both  have  borne  me,  anc 

the  love 
I  bore  them  both  —  divided  as  I  am 
From    either    by    the    stillness   of    the 

grave  — 
I   know  not  which  of    these  I   love  the 

best. 

But  you  lore  Edith  ;  and  her  own  true 
eyes 
Are  traitors  to  her  ;  our  quick  Evelyn  — ■ 
The   merriei',    prettier,   wittier,   as  they 


614 


THE   VILLAGE   WIFE;   OR,    THE   ENTAIL. 


And  not  witliout  good  reason,  my  good 

son  — 
Is  yet  untouch'd :  and  I  that  hold  them 

both 
Dearest  of  all  things  —  well,   I  am  not 

sure  — 
But    if    there   lie    a    preference    either 

way, 
And  in  the  rich  vocabulary  of  Love 
"  Most  dearest  "  be  a  true  superlative  — 
1  think  /  likewise  love  your  Edith  most. 


THE  VILLAGE  WIFE  ;  OR,  THE 
ENTAIL.1 


'OusE-KEEPER  Sent  tha  my  lass,  fur  new 
Squire  coom'd  last  night. 

Butter  an'  heggs  —  vis  —  yis.  I  '11  goa 
wi'  tha  back  :  all  right ; 

Butter  I  warrants  be  prime,  an'  I  war- 
rants the  heggs  be  as  well, 

Hafc  a  pint  o'  milk  runs  out  when  ya 
breaks  the  shell. 


Sit  thy  sen  down  fur  a  bit :  hev  a  glass  o' 

co\vslip  wine  ! 
I  like  the  owd  Squire  an'  'is  gells  as  thaw 

they  was  gells  o'  mine. 
Fur  then  we  wa^  all  es  one,  the  Squire 

an'  'is  darters  an'  me, 
Hall  but  Miss  Annie,  the  heldest,  I  niver 

not  took  to  she  ; 
But  Nelly,  the  last  of  the  eletch,^  I  liked 

'or  the  fust  on  'em  all, 
Fur  hoffens  we  talkt  o'  my  darter  es  died 

o'  the  fever  at  fall : 
An'  I  thowt  'twur  the  will  o'   the  Lord, 

but  Miss  Annie  she  said   it   wiir 

draains, 
Fur  she  hed  n't  naw  coomfut  in  'er,  an' 

arn'd  naw  thanks  fur  'er  paains. 
Eh  !  thelibe  all  wi'  the  Lord  my  childer, 

I  han't  gotten  none  ! 
Sa  new  Squire  's  coom'd  wi'  'is  tnail  in  'is 

'and,  'an  owd  Squire  's  gone. 


Fur  'staiite  be  i'  taail,  my  lass  ;  tha  dosn' 
ivnaw  what  that  be  ? 

But  I  knaws  the  law,  I  does,  for  the  law- 
yer ha  towd  it  me. 

1  See  note  to  "  Northern  Cobbler,"  page  639. 
*  A  brood  of  chickens. 


"  When  theer's  naw  'cad  to  a  'Ouse  by 
the  fault  o'  that  ere  maiile  — 

The  gells  they  counts  fur  nowt,  and  the 
next  un  he  tailkes  the  taail." 


What  be  the  next  un  like  ?  can  tha  tell 

ony  harm  on  'ini  lass  ?  — 
Naay  sit  down  —  naw  'nrry  —  sa  cowdS 

—  hev  anotiier  glass  ! 
Straange  an'  co-wd  fur  the  time  !  we  may 

happen  a  fall  o'  snaw  — 
Not  es  I  cares  fur  to  hear  ony  harm,  but 

I  likes  to  knaw. 
An'  I  oaps  es  'e  beant  booiJklarn'd  :  but 

'e  dosn'  not  coom  fro'  the  siiere  ; 
We'd  anew  o'  that  wi'  the  Squire,  an 

we  haates  boooklarnin'  ere. 


Fur  Squire  wur  a  Varsity  scholard,  an 

niver  lookt  arter  the  land  — 
Whoats  or  turmuts  or  taates —  'e  'd  hal- 

lus  a  boook  i'  'is  'and, 
Hallus  aloiin   wi'   'is  boociks,  thaw  nigh 

upo'  seventy  year. 
An'  boooks,  what  's  boooks  '^  thou  knaw? 

tiiebbe  neyther  'ere  nor  theer. 


An'  the  gells,  they  hed  n't  naw  taaiis,  an' 

the  lawyer  he  towd  it  me 
That  'is   taail  were   soa  tied    up   es   he 

could  n't  cut  down  a  tree  ! 
"  Drat  the  trees,"  says  I,  to  be  sewer  I 

haates  'em,  my  lass. 
Fur  wc  puts  the  muck  o'  the  land,  an' 

they  sucks  the  muck  fro'  the  grass. 


An'  Squife  wur  hallus  a-smilin',  an'  gied 

to  the  tramps  goin'  by  — 
An'   all  o'    the  wust  i'  the    parish  —  wi' 

hoffens  a  drop  in  'is  eye. 
An'  ivi-y  darter  o'  Squire's  hed  her  awn 

ridin-erse  to  'ersen, 
An'    they    rampaged     /ibout    wi'    their 

grooms,  au'  wus  'uuiin'  arter  the 

men, 
An'  hallus  a-dallackt  ^  an'  dizen'd  out,  an' 

a-buyin'  new  cloathes, 
While  e' sit  like  a  graat  glimmer-gowk* 

wi'  'is  glasses  athiirt  'is  noase. 
An'  'is  noase  sa  grufted  wi'  snuff  as  it 

could  n't  be  scroob'd  awaay, 

*  Overdres'  in  gay  colors.  <  Owl. 


THE    VILLAGE    WIFE  ;   OR,    THE    ENTAIL. 


615 


Fur  'atween  is  readin'  an'writin'  'e  suifft 

up  ;i  box  in  a  daily, 
Au'  'c  iiiver   niiniM  arter   tiie  fox,  nor 

arter  the  birds  wi'  'is  gun, 
An'  e'  niver   not   shot  one    'are,   but  'e 

leJived  it  to  Cliarlie  'is  son. 
An'  'e  niver  not  tisli'd  'is  awn  ponds,  but 

Cliarlie  'e  cotcli'd  the  pike, 
Fur  'e  warn't  not  burn  to  the  hind,  au'  'e 

did  n't  take  kind  to  it  like  ; 
But  I  eiirs  e.s  'e'd  j;ie  fui-  a  howry  ^  owd 

book  thiitty  pound  jui'  moor. 
An'  'e'd  wrote  an  owd  book,  his  awn  sen, 

sa  I    kuaw'd   es   'e'd  coom  to  be 

poor ; 
An'  'e  gied  —  I  be  fear'd  fur  to  tell  tha 

'ow  much  —  fur  au  owd  scratted 

stojin. 
An'  'e  digg'd  up  a  loomp  i'  the  land  an' 

'e  got  a  brown  pot  an'  a  boau, 
An'  'e  howt  owd  money,  es  would  u  t  goil, 

wi'  good  gowd  o'  the  Queen, 
An'  'e  bowt  little  statutes   all-naakt  an' 

which  was  a  shaame  to  be  seen  ; 
But  'e   niver   loookt   ower  a  bill,  nor  'e 

niver  not  seed  to  owt, 
An'  'e  niver  knawd  nowt  but  boooks.  an' 

booiiks,  as  thou  knaws,  beilnt  nowt. 


But  owd  Squire's  laady  es  long  es  she 

lived  she  kep'  'em  all  clear, 
Thaw  es   lotig  es  she  lived  I  niver  hed 

none  of  'er  darters  'ere; 
But  arter  she  died  we  was  all  es  one,  tlie 

childer  an'  me, 
An'  sarvints  runn'd  in  an'  out,  an'  offeus 

we  hed  "em  to  tea. 
Lawk  !  'ow  1  laugh'd  when  the  lasses  'ud 

talk  o'  their  Missis's  waays. 
An'  the  Missisis  talk'd  o'  the   lasses.  — 

1  '11  tell  tha  some  o'  these  daavs. 
Hoanly  Mi>s  Annie  were  saw  stuck  oop, 

like  'er  mother  afoor  — 
•Er  an'   'er  blessed  darter  —  they  niver 

derken'd  my  door. 


An'   Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e   smiled   till 

'e'd  gotten  a  fright  at  last, 
An'  'e  calls  fur  'is  sou,  fnr  the  'turuey's 

letters  they  foller'd  sa  fast  ; 
But  Squire  wur  afe.ir'd  o'  'is  son,  an'  'e 

says  to  'im,  meek  as  a  mouse, 
"Lad,  thou  mun  cut  off  thy  taail,  or  the 

gells  'ull  goa  to  the  'Oase, 
1  Filthy. 


Fur  I  finds  es  I  be  that  i'  debt,  es  I  'oaps 

es  thou  '11  'elj)  me  a  bit, 
An'  if  thou  'II  'gree  to  cut  off  thy  taiiil  1 

may  saave  myseu  yit." 


But  Charlie  'e  sets  back  'is  ears,  an'  'e 

swears,  an'  'e  says  to  'im  "  Noa." 
"  I  've  gotten  the  'staiite  by  the  taail  an' 

be  dang'd  if  I  iver  let  goa ! 
Coom!    coom!    feyther," 'e  says,  "why 

should  n't  thy  boooks  bo  sowd  ? 
I   hears   es   soom   o'  thy  boooks   niebbe 

worth  their  weight  i'  gowd." 


Heaps  an'  heii|is  o'    boooks,  I  ha'  see'd 

'em,  belonged  to  the  Siiuire, 
But  the  lasses  'ed  teard  out  leaves  i'  the 

middle  to  kindle  the  lire; 
Sa  moast  on    is  owd  big  boooks  fetch'd 

nigh  to  nowt  at  the  satlle, 
And  Squire  were  at  Charlie  agean  to  git 

'im  to  cut  off  'is  t.iail. 


Ya  would  n't   find    Charlie's  likes  —  'e 

were  that  outdacioiis  at  'oiim. 
Not  thaw  ya  went  fur  to  raake  out  Hell 

wi'  a  small-tooth  eoiimb  — 
Droouk  wi'  the  Quoloty's  wine,  an'  droonk 

wi'  the  farmer's  aale, 
Mad    wi'    the    lasses    an'    all  —  an'    'e 

wouhl  n't  cut  off  the  taiiil. 

XIII. 

Thou  's  coom'd  oop  by  the  beck ;  and  a 

thurn  be  a-grawin'  tlieer, 
I  niver  ha  seed  it  sa  white  wi'  the  Maay 

es  I  see'd  it  to-year  — 
Theerabouts     Charlie    joompt  —  and    it 

gied  me  a  scare  tother  night, 
Fur  I  thowt  it  wiir  Charlie's  ghoast  i'  the 

derk,  fur  it  loookt  sa  white. 
"  Billy,"  says  'e,  "  hev  a  joomp  !  "  — thav/ 

the  banks  o'  the  heek  be  sa  high. 
Fur  he  ca'd  'is  'erse  Billy-roughun,  thaw 

niver  a  hair  wur  awry  ; 
But    Billy  fell    bakkuds   o'  Charlie,  an' 

Charlie  'e  brok  'is  neck. 
So  theer  wur  a  heiul  o'  the  taiiil,  fur  'e 

lost  'is  taiiil  i'  the  beck. 


Sa  'is  taail  wur  lost  an'  'is  boooks  wur 
gone  an'  'is  boy  wur  deid. 


616 


IN   THE  CHILDREN  S   HOSPITAL. 


An'  Squire  'e  smiled  an'  'e  smiled,  but  'e 
uiver  not  lift  oop  'is  ead  : 

Hallus  a  soft  lui  Squire  !  an'  'e  smiled,  fur 
'e  lied  n't  naw  friend, 

Sa  feyther  an'  son  was  buried  togifher, 
an'  this  wur  the  hend. 


An'  Parson  as  has  n't  the  call,  nor  the 

niooncy,  but  lies  the  pride, 
'E  reiids  of  a  sev/er  an'  sartau  'oap  o'  the 

tother  side  ; 
But  I  beant  that  sewer  cs  the  Lord,  how- 

si»er  they  piaay'd   in  praiiy'd. 
Lets  them  inter  'eaven  easy  es  k-iives  their 

debts  to  be  paaid. 
Siver  the  mou'ds  rattled  down  upo'  poor 

owd  Squire  i'  tlie  wood, 
An'  I  cried  alon<j  wl'  the  gells,  fur  tiiey 

weant  niver  coom  to  naw  good. 


Fur  Molly  the  youngest  she  walkt  awaay 

wi'  a  hofficer  lad, 
An'  naw  body  'eard  on  'er  sin,  sa  o'  coorse 

she  be  gone  to  the  bad  ! 
An*  Lucy  wur  laame  o'  one  leg,  sweet- 

'arts  she  never  'ed  none  — 
Straange  an'  unheppen  ^  Miss  Lucy  !  we 

n.iamed  lier    "  Dot  an'  gaw  one  !  " 
An'  Hetty  wur  weak  i'  the  hattics,  wi'out 

ony  linrm  i'  tlie  legs. 
An'  the  fever  'ed  baaked  Jinny's  'ead  as 

bald  as  one  o'  them  lieggs, 
An'  Nelly  wur  up  fro'  the  craadle  as  big 

i'  the  mou'ih  as  a  cow, 
An'  saw  slie  mun  IiammorQrate,^  lass,  or 

she  weant  git  a  niaate  onyhow  ! 
An'  es  fur  Miss  Annie  cs  cail'd  me  afoor 

my  awn  fdiilks  to  my  faace 
"  A  higiiorant  \  illage  wife  as  'ud  hev  to 

be  larn'd  her  awn  plaace," 
Hep  fur  Miss  Hannie  the  hcldest  hes  now 

be  a-grawin'  sa  howd, 
I  knaws  that  mooch  o'  shea,  es  it  beant 

not  fit  to  be  towd  ! 

XVII. 

Sa  1.  did  n't  not  taake  it  kindly  ov  owd 

Miss  Annie  to  saay 
Es  I  should  be  talk  in'  agean  em,  es  soon 

es  tliey  went  waiiy, 
ITur,  lawks !   'ow  I  cried  wlicn  they  went, 

an'  our  Nelly  she  gied  me  'er  'and, 

'  Ungainly,  awkward. 
2  Emigrate. 


Fur  I'd  ha  done  owt  fur  the  Squire  an 
'is  gells  es  belong'd  to  tiie  land ; 

Boobks,  es  I  said  afoor,  thebbe  neyther 
'ere  nor  theer  J 

But  I  sarved  'em  wi'  butter  an'  hegg?  fur 
huppuds  o'  twenty  year. 

XVIII. 

An'  they  hallus  ])aaid  what  I  hax'd,  sa 

hallus  dcei'd  wi'  tlic  Hall, 
An'  they   knaw'd   what  butter  wur,  an 

they  knaw'd  what  a  hegg  wur  an' 

all  ; 
Hugger-mugger    they    lived,    but    they 

was  n't  that  ea.sy  to  please. 
Till  I  gied  'cm  Hiujian  curn,  an'  they 

laiiid  big  heggs  es  tha  seeas  ; 
An'  I  uivcr  puts  saame  ^  i'  iny  butter, 

they  does  it  at  Willis's  farm, 
Taaste  another  drop  o'  the  wiue  —  tweant 

do  tha  naw  harm. 


Sa  new  Squire  's  coom'd  wi'  'is  taail  in 

'is  'and,  an'  owd  Squire  's  gone ; 
I  heard  'im  a  roomlin'  by,  but  arter  my 

nightca]>  wur  on  ; 
So  I  han't  dapt  eyes  on  'im  yit,  fur  he 

coom'd  last  night  sa  laate  — 
Pluksh  !  ! !  ■*  the    luns  i'  the  peas!    why 

did  n't  tha  hesp  the  gaate  ? 


IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 


Our  dt>ctor  had  cail'd  in  another,  I  never 

had  seen  him  before. 
But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when  i 

saw  him  come  in  at  the  donr. 
Fresh  from  the  surgery-schools  of  France 

and  of  other  lands  — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chestj  big 

merciless  hands! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done.  0  yes,  but 

they  said  too  of  him 
He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than  in 

trying  to  save  the  limb. 
And  that  I  can  well  believe,  for  he  look'd 

so  coarse  and  so  red, 
I  could  think   he  was  one  of  those  who 

would  break  their  jests  on  the  dead, 

3  Lard. 

*  A  cry  accompanied  by  a  clapping  of  hands  to 
scare  trespassing  fowl 


IN  THE  children's   HOSPITAL. 


617 


And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had  loved 
him  and  fawii'd  at  his  knee  — 

Drench'd  with  the  hellish  oorali — that 
ever  such  things  should  be  ! 


Here  was  a  boy  —  I  am  sure  that  some 

of  oui-  children  would  die 
But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the  smile, 

and  tlu;  comforting  eye  — 
Here  was  a  boy  in  the  ward,  every  bone 

secm'd  out  of  its  place  — 
Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd  —  it  was  all 

but  a  hopeless  case  : 
And  he  handled  him  gintly  enough  ;  but 

his  voice   and   his  face   weie  not 

kind, 
And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he  had 

seen  it  and  made  up  his  mind, 
And  he  said  to  me  roughly,  "  The  lad 

will  need  little  more  of  your  care." 
*' All  the   more  need,"  1   told  him,   "to 

seek  the  Lord  Jesus  in  prayer; 
They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I  pray 

for  them  all  as  my  own  :  " 
But  he  turn'd    to  me,  "  Ay, good  woman, 

can  prayer  set  a  broken  bone '?  " 
Then  he  niutter'd  half  to  himself,  but  I 

know  that  I  heard  him  say 
"  All    very   well  —  but    the   good   Lord 

Jesus  has  had  his  day," 


Had  ?  has  it  come  ?     It  has  only  dawn'd. 

It  will  come  by  and  by. 
0  how  could  I  serve  in  the  wards  if  the 

hope  of  the  world  were  a  lie  ? 
How  could   I  bear  with  the  sights  and 

the  loathsome  smells  of  disease. 
But  that  He  said  "  Ye  do  it  to  me,  when 

ve  do  it  to  these  "  ? 


So  he  went.  And  we  past  to  this  ward 
where  the  younger  children  are 
laid  : 

Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  dar- 
ling, our  meek  little  maid; 

Empty  you  see  just  now  !  We  have  lost 
her  who  loved  her  so  much  — 

Patient  of  paintho'  as  quick  as  a  sensitive 
plant  to  the  touch  ; 

Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often 
moved  me  to  tears, 

Usrs  was  the  gratefnllest  heart  I  have 
found  in  a  child  of  her  years  — • 


Nay  you  remember  our  Emmie  ;  you  used 

to  send  her  the  flowers  ; 
How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play  with 

'em,  talk  to  'em  hours  after  iiours ! 
They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the 

works  ot  the  Lord  are  reveal'd 
Little  guess  what  joy  can  he  got  from  a 

cowslip  out  of  the  field  ; 
Flowers  to  these  "  spirits  in  prison  "  are 

all  they  can  know  of  the  spring. 
They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards  like 

the  waft  oi  an  Angel's  wing  ; 
And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand  and 

her  thin  hands  crost  on  her  breast  — 
Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can  desire, 

and  we  thought  her  at  lest, 
Quietly   sleeping  —  so  quiet,  our   doctor 

said  "  I'oor  little  dear, 
Nurse,   I  must  do  it  to-nnn-row ;  she'll 

never  live  thro'  it,  I  fear." 


I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as 
far  as  the  head  of  the  stair. 

Then  I  return'd  to  the  ward  ;  the  child 
did  n't  see  I  was  there. 


Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been  so 

grieved  and  so  vext ! 
Ennnie  iiad  heard  him.    Softly  she  call'd 

from  her  cot  to  the  next, 
"  He  says  I  shall  never  live  thro'  it,  O 

Annie,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 
Annie  considir'd.     "If  I,"  said  the  wise 

little  Annie,  "  was  you, 
I  should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to 

help  me,  for,  Emnii*!,  yon  see. 
It's    all    in    the    picture    there:  'Little 

children  should  come  to  me.'  "  — 
(Meaning  the  jirint  that  you  gave  us,  I 

find  that  it  always  can  ]ilease 
Our  children,   the  dear  Lord  Jesus  with 

children  about  his  knees.) 
"Yes,  and   I  will,"  said   P>mmie,   "but 

then  if  I  call  to  the  Lord, 
How  should  he  know  that  it's  me  1  such 

a  lot  of  beds  in  the  ward  !  " 
That  was  a  puzz'e  for  Annie.    Again  she 

considcr'd  and  said  :  — 
'  "  Emmie,  you  ]iut   out  your  arms,  and 
I  you  leave  'em  outside  on  the  bed  — 

!  The   Lord  has  so   7nurh  to  see  to.!  but, 

Emmie,  yon  tell  it  him  plain. 
It  'b  the  little  girl  with  her  arras  lying 

out  on  the  counterpane." 


618 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COBHAM. 


I  had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child  —  I 

could  not  watch  her  for  four  — 
My   brain  had  begun    to  reel  —  I  felt  I 

could  do  it  no  more. 
That  was  my  sleeping-night,  l)ut  I  thought 

that  it  never  wouUl  pass. 
There  was  a  thunder-clap  once,   and  a 

clatter  of  hail  on  the  glass, 
And  there  was  a   phantom   cry   that   I 

heard  as  I  tost  about, 
The  motherless    lileat  of  a  lamb  in  the 

storm  and  the  darkness  witliout ; 
My  sleep  was  broken  besides  with  dreams 

of  the  dreadfid  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who 

scarce  would  escape  with  her  life  ; 
Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it  seem'd 

she  stood  by  me  ami  smiled, 
And  the  doctor  came  at  Ins  hour,  and  we 

went  to  see  the  child. 


He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools  :  we 

believed  her  iisleep  again  — 
Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying  out 

on  the  counterpane ; 
Say   that   His   day   is   done !     Ah   why 

should  we  care  what  they  say  "? 
The  Lord  of  the  childrt'ii  had  heard  her, 

and  Enunie  had  past  away. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD 
COBHAM. 

(in  wales.) 

My   friend  should   meet  me   somewhere 

hereabout 
To  take  me  to  that  hiding  in  the  hills. 

I  have  broke  their  cage,  no  gilded  one, 
I  trow  — 

I  rend  no  more  the  prisoner's  mute  wail 

iScribbled    or   carved   upon    the    pitiless 
stone  ; 

I  find  hard  rocks,  hard  life,  hard  cheer, 
or  none. 

For  I  am  emptier  than  a  frier's  brains ; 

But  God  is  with  me  in  this  wilderness. 

These  wet  black  ])asses  and  foam-churn- 
ing chasms,  — 

And   God's  free  air,  and  hope  of  better 
things. 
I  would  I  knew  their  speech ;  not  now 
to  glean 


Not  now —  I  hojie  to  do  it  — some  scat- 

ter'd  ears, 
Some  ears  fur  Christ  in  this  wild  field  of 

.    Wales  — 
But,    bread,    merely    for    bread.      This 

tongue  that  wagg'd 
They  said  with  such  lieretical  arrogance 
Against  the  jjroud  archbishop  Arundel  — 
So  much  God's  cause  was  fluent  iu  it  — 

is  here 
But  as  a  Latin  Bible  to  the  crowd  ; 
•' Bara  !  "  —  what  use?     The  Shepherd 

when  I  speak. 
Veiling  a  iuUeu  eyelid  with  his  hard 
"  Dim  Satsneg  "  passes,  wroth  at  things 

of  eld  — 
No  fault  of  mine.     Had  he  God's  word 

in  Welsh 
He  miuht  be  kindlier  :  happily  come  the 

day! 
Not  least  art  thou,  thou  little  Bethle- 
hem 
In  Judah,  for  in  thee  the  Lord  was  born; 
Nor  thou  in  Britain,  little  Lutterworth, 
Least,   for   in   thee   the   word   was  born 

again. 

Heaven-sweet    Evangel,     ever    living 

word, 
Who  whilom  spakest   to   the    South   in 

Greek 
About  the  soft  Mediterranean  shores, 
And  then  in  Latin  to  the  Latin  croAvd, 
As  good  need  was  —  thou  hast  come  to 

talk  our  isle. 
Hereafter  thou,  fulfilling  Pentecost, 
Must  learn  to  use  the  tongues  of  all  the 

world. 
Yet  art  thou  thine  own  witness  that  thou 

bringest 
Not  peace,  a  sword,  a  fire. 

What  did  he  say, 
My  frighted  Wiclif-preacher  whom  I  crost 
In  flying  hither?  that  one  night  a  crowd 
Throng'd  the  waste  field  about  the  city 

gates : 
The  king  was  on  them  suddenly  with  £ 

host. 
Why    there  ?  they   came   to    hear   their 

preacher.     Then 
Some  cried  on  Cobham,  on  the  good  Lord 

Cobham  ; 
Ay,  for  they  love  me!  but  the  king  — 

nor  voice 
Nor  finger  raised  against  him — took  and 

liang'd, 
Took,  haug'd  and  burnt  —  how  many  — 

thirty-nine  — 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COBHAM. 


619 


Call'd  it  rebellion  —  haug'd,  poor  friends, 

as  rebels 
And  burn VI  alive  as  heretics !  for  your 

Priest 
Labels  —  to   take   the   king   along   with 

him  — 
All    heresy,    treason  :    but    to    call    men 

traitors 
May  make  men  traitors. 

Rose  of  Lanoaster, 
Red  in  thy  birth,  redder  with  household 

war, 
Now  reddest  with  the  blood  of  holy  men, 
Redder  to  be,  red  rose  of  Laueaster  — 
If  somewhere    in  the  2sor;h,  as    Rumor 

sang 
Fluttering  the  hawks  of  this  crown-lust- 
ing line  — 
By  firth  and  loch  thy  silver  sister  grow.i 
That  were  my  rose,  tliere  my  allegiance 

due. 
Self-starved,  they  say  —  nay,  murder'd  : 

doubtless  dead. 
So  to  tills  king  I  cleaved  :  mv  friend  was 

he. 
Once  my  fast  friend  :  I  would  have  given 

my  life 
To  help  his  own  from  scathe,  a  thousand 

lives 
To  save  his  soul.     He  might  have  come 

to  learn 
Our   Wiclifs  learning :  but  the  worldly 

Priests 
Who  fear  the  king  s  hard  common-sense 

should  find 
What  rotten    piles   uphold    their  mason- 
work, 
Urge  him  to  foreign  war.    0  had  he  will'd 
I  might  have  stricken  a  lusty  stroke  for 

him. 
But  he  would  not ;  far  liever  led  my  friend 
Back  to  the  pure  and  universal  church, 
But  he  would  not :  whether  that  heirless 

flaw 
In    his   throne's    title   make  him  feel  so 

frail, 
He  leans  on  Antichrist ;  or  that  his  mind, 
3o  quick,  so  capable  in  soldiership, 
In  matters  of  the  faith,  alas  tlie  wliile  ! 
More  worth  than  all  tlie  kingdoms  of  this 

world. 
Runs  in  the  rut,  a  coward  to  the  Priest. 

Burnt  —  good  Sir   Roger   Acton,    my 
dear  friend  ! 
Burnt  too,  my  faithful  preacher,  Bever- 
ley ! 

'  Richard  II. 


Lord  give  thou  power  to  thy  two  wit- 
nesses ! 
Lest  the  false   faith   make   merry   over 

them  ! 
Two  —  uav  but  thirty-nine  have  riseu  and 

sta.-d. 
Dark  with  the  smoke  of  human  sacrifice, 
Before  ihy  light,  and  cry  continually  — 
Cry  —  agaiust  whom  ( 

Him,  who  should  bear  the  sword 
Of   Justice  —  what!  the    kingly,    kiudly 

boy  ; 
Who  took  the  world  so  easily  heretofore, 
My  boon  companion,  tavern-fellow  —  him 
Who  gibed  and  ja])ed  —  in  many  a  merry 

tale 
That   sjiook   our   sides  —  at    Pardoners, 

Summoners, 
Friars,  altsolution-sellers,  monkeries 
And  nunneries,  when  the  wilil  hour  and 

the  wine 
Had  set  the  wits  aflame. 

Ilariy  of  Monmouth, 
Or  Aniurath  of  the  East  ? 

Better  to  sink 
Thy  fleur.s-de-lys  in  slime  again,  and  Hiug 
Thy  royalty  back  into  the  riotous  fits 
Of  wine  and  harlotry  —  thy  shame,  and 

mine, 
Thv   comrade  —  than   to    persecute   the 

Lord, 
And  play  the  Saul  that  never  will  be  Paul. 

Burnt,   burnt !   and  while  this   mitred 

Arundel 
Dooms   our  unlicensed   preacher   to  the 

flame. 
The   niitre-sanction'd    harlot    draws   his 

clerks 
Into  the  suburb  —  their  hard  celibacy, 
Sworn  to  be  veriest  iee  of  pureness,  molten 
Into  adulterous  living,  or  such  crimes 
As   holy    Paul  —  a   sliame    to   speak  of 

them  — 
Among  the  heathen  — 

Sanctuary  granted 
To  bandit,  thief,  assassin  —  yea  to  liim 
Who  hacks  his  mother's  throat  —  denied 

to  liim. 
Who  finds    the   Saviour    in  his  mother 

tongue. 
The    Gospel,    the    Priest's    pearl,    flung 

down  to  swine  — 
The    swine,    lay-men,    lay -women,    who 

will  come, 
God  willing,  to  outlearn  the  filthy  fiiar. 
Ah  rather,  Lord,  than  that  thy  Gospel, 

meant 


620 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  LORD  COBHAM. 


To  course  aud  range  thro'  all  the  world, 

should  be 
Tether 'd   to  these   dead    pillars   of   the 

Church  — 
Rather  than  so,  if  thou  wilt  have  it  so, 
Burst  veiu,  snap  siuew,  and  crack  heart, 

aud  life 
Pass  iu  the  lire  of  Babylon  !  but  how  long, 
0  Lord,  how  long  ! 

My  fi  ieud  should  meet  me  here. 
Here  is  the  copse,  the  fouiitniu  aud  —  a 

Cross ! 
To  thee,  dead  wood,  I   bow  not  head  nor 

kuecs. 
Rather  to  thee,  green  boscage,  work  of 

God, 
Black  holly,  and  white-flower'd  wayfaring 

tree  ! 
Rather  to  thee,  tliou  living  water,  drawn 
By  this  good  Wiclif  mountain  down  from 

heaven. 
And    speaking     clearly    in    thy    native 

tongue  — 
No  Latin  —  He  that  thirsteth,  come  and 

drink ! 

Eh !  how  I   auger'd    Arundel   asking 
me 

To  worship  Holy  Cross !     I  spread  mine 
arms, 

God's  work,  I  said,  a  cross  of  flesh  and 
blood 

And  holier.  That  was  heresy.    (My good 
friend 

By  this  time  should  be  with  me.)     "Im- 
ages ? " 

"  Bury  them  as  God's  truer  images 

Are   dailv   buried."        "Heresy. — -Pen- 
ance ?  "     "  Fast, 

Hairshirt  and  scourge  —  nav,  let  a  man 
repent, 

Do  penance  iu  liis  heart,  God  hears  him." 
"  Heresy  — 

Not  shriven,  not  saved  ?  "   "  What  profits 
an  ill  Priest 

Between  me  and  my  God  ?     I  would  not 
spurn 

Good  counsel  of  good  frieuds,  but  shrive 
myself. 

No,  not  to  an  Apostle."     "  Heresy." 

(My   friend   is  long  in   coming.)     "Pil- 
grimnges?  " 
Drink,      bagpipes,     revelling,     devil's- 
dances,  vice. 

The  poor  man's  money  gone  to  fat  the 
frinr. 

Who  reads  of  begging  saints  in   scrip- 
ture ?  "  —  "  Heresy  "  — 


(Hath   he  been  here  —  not  found  me — 
gone  again  1 

Have  1  mislearut  our  place  of  meeting?) 
"Bread  — 

Bread  left  after  the  blessing  ?  "  how  they 
stared, 

That    was    their    main    test-question  — 
gbiicd  at  me! 

"  He  vcil'd  Himself  in  flesh,  and  now  He 
veils 

His  flesh  in  bread,  body  and    bread  to- 
gether." 

Then  rose  the  howl  of  all  the  cassock'd 
wolves, 

"  No    bread,   no    bread.     God's   body  !  " 
Archbishoji,  Bi^hop, 

Priors,     Canons,     Priars,      bell-ringers, 
Parish-clerks  — 

"  No  bread,  no  bread  !  "  —  "  Authority  of 
the  Church, 

Power  of  the  keys  !  "  —  Then  I,  God  help 
me,  I 

So  mock'd,  so  spurn 'd,  so  baited  two  whole 
days  — 

I  lost  myself  and  fell  from  evenness, 

Aud    ra'il'd  at  all   the   Popes,  that  ever 
since 

Sylvester  shed  the  venom  of  world-wealth 

Into  the  church,  liad  only  prov'n  them, 
selves 

Poisoners,  murderers.     Well  —  God  par- 
don all  — 

Me,  them,  and  all  the  Morld  —  yea,  that 
proud  Priest, 

That  mock-meek   mouth  of  utter  Anti- 
christ, 

That  traitor  to  King  Richard   and   the 
truth. 

Who  rose  and  doom'd  me  to  the  fire. 

Amenl 

Nay,  I  can  burn,  so  that  the  Lord  of  life 

Be  by  me  in  my  death. 

Those  three  !  the  fourth 

Was  like  the   son  of   God.      Not  burnt 
were  they. 

On  them  the  smell  of  burning  had  not 
past. 

That  was  a  miracle  to  convert  the  king 

These  Pharisees,  this  Caiajihas-Aruudel 

What  miracle  could  turn  ?  He  here  again, 

He  thwartiug  their   traditions   of   Him- 
self, 

He  would  be  found  a  heretic  to  Himself, 

And  doom'd  to  burn  alive. 

So,  caught,  I  bum 
Burn  ?  heathen  men  have  borne  as  much 
as  this, 


COLUMBUS. 


621 


For  freedom,  or  the  sake  of  those  they 

loved. 
Or  some  less  cause,  some  cause  far  less 

than  mine  ; 
For  every  other  cause  is  less  than  mine. 
The   mo'ih   will    siuge    her   wiugs,   aud 

singed  return, 
Her  love  of  light  quencliiug  her  fear  of 

pain  — 
How  now,  my  soul,  we  do  not  heed  tiie 

fire? 
Faint-hearted  ?    tut  !  —  faint-.stouuuh'd  ! 

fiiint  as  I  am, 
God  willing,  I  will  burn  for  Iliin. 

Who  comes  ? 
A  thousand  marks  are  s-et  upon  my  head. 
Friend  1  —  foe  perhaps  —  a  tussle  for  it 

then! 
Nay,  but  my  friend.     Thou  art  so  well 

disguised, 
I  knew  thee  not.      Hast  thou    brought 

bread  with  thee? 
I  have  not  orokeii  biead  for  fifty  hours. 
None  ?      I  am   damn'd    already    by  the 

Priest 
For  holding  there  was  bread  where  bread 

was  none  — 
No  bread.    My  friends  await  me  youder  1 

Yes. 
Lead  on  then.     6^;  the  mountain"?     Is  it 

far  ? 
Not  far.     Climb  first  and  reach  me  down 

thy  hand. 
I  am  not  like  to  die  for  lack  of  bread. 
For  1  must  live  to  testify  by  fire.i 


COLUMBUS. 

Chains,  my  good  lord  :  in  your  raised 

brows  1  read 
Some  wonder  at  our  chamber  ornaments. 
We  brought  tiiis  iron  from  our  isles  of 

gold. 

Docs  the  king  know  you  deign  lo  visit 

hitn 
Whom  once  he  rose  from  off  his  throne 

to  greet 
Before  his  people,  like  his  brother  king  ? 
I  saw  your  face  that  morning  in  the  crowd. 

At  Barcelona  —  tho'  you  were  not  then 
So  bearded.     Yes.     The  city  deck'd  her 
self 

*  He  was  burnt  oc  Christmas  Day,  1417 


To  meet  me,  roar'd  n.y  name  ;  the  king, 

the  queen 
Bade  me  be  s-jated,  speak,  and  tell  thetr 

all 
The  story  of  my  voyage,  and   while  I 

spoke 
The  ciowd's  roar  fell  as  at  the  "  Peace, 

be  still!"       ■ 
And  when  I  censed  to  speak,  the  king-, 

the  queen 
Sank  fiom  their  throues,  and  melted  into 

tears, 
Aud    knelt,  aud   lifted  hand  and   heart 

aud  voice 
In  ])raiie  to  God  who  led  me  thro'  the 

waste. 
And  then  the  great  "  Laudamus  "  rose  to 

heaven. 

Chains  for  the  Admiral  of  the  Oceau  ! 

chains 
For  him  who  gave  a  new  heaven,  a  new 

earth. 
As  holy  John  had  ))rophesied  of  me. 
Gave  glory  and  more  empire  to  the  kings 
Of  Spain'  than  nil  their  battles !  chains 

for  him 
Who  push'd  his  prows  into  the  setting 

sun. 
And    made    We.st    East,   and   sail'd    the 

Dragon's  mouth. 
And   came  upon   the   Mountain   of  the 

World, 
And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  Paradise ! 

Chains  !  we  are  Admirals  of  the  Ocean, 

we. 
We  and  our  sons  forever.     P'erdinand 
Hath   sign'd  it   and  our  Holy  Catholic 

queen  — 
Of  the  Ocean  — of  the  Indies  —  Admiral, 

we  — 
Our  title,  which  wc  never  mean  to  yield, 
Our  guerdon  not  alone  for  what  we  did. 
But  our  amends  for  all  we  might  have 

done  — 
The  vast  occasion  of  our  stronger  life  — 
Eighteen  long  years  of  waste,  seven  in 

your  Spain, 
Lost,  showing  courts  and  kings  a  truth  the 

babe 
Will  suck  in  with  his  milk  hereafter  — 

earth 
A  sphere. 

Were  you  at  Salamanca  1    No. 
We  fronted    there    the   learning  of   all 
Spain, 


622 


COLUMBUS. 


All  their  cosmogonies,  their  astronomies  : 

Guess-work  theij  guessed  it,  but  the  gol- 
den guess 

Is  moruiug-star  to  the  full  rouud  of  truth. 

No  guess-work !      I  was  certain  of  my 
goal  ; 

Some  thought  it  heresy  ;  that  would  not 
hoLl. 

King  Duvid  ciill'd  the  heavens  a  hide,  a 
tent 

Spread  over  earth,  and  so  tliis  earth  was 
flat; 

Some  cited  old  Lactantius  :  could  it  be 

That  trees  grew  downward,  rain  fell  up- 
ward, men 

Walk'd  like  the  fly  on  ceilings?  and  be- 
sides 

The   great  Augustine  wrote   that   none 
could  breathe 

Within  the  zone  of  beat ;  so  might  there 
he 

Two  Adams,  two  mankinds,  and  that  was 
clean 

Against  God's  word  :  thus  was  I  beaten 
back, 

And  chiefly  to  my  sorrow  by  the  Church, 

And  thought  to  turn  my  face  from  Spain, 
appeal 

Once  more  to  France  or  England;  but 
our  Queen 

Recall'd  me,  for  iit  last  their  Highnesses 

Were  half -assured  this  earth  might  be  a 
sphere. 
All  glory  to  the  all-blessed  Trinity, 

All  glory  to  the  mother  of  our  Lord, 

And  Holy  Church,  from  whom  I  never 
swerved 

Not  even  by  one  hair's-breadth  of  hercsj, 

I  have  accomplish'd  what  1  came  to  do 

Not  vet  —  not  all  —  last  night;  a  dream 
—  I  sail'd 
On   my    first    voyage,    harass'd    by   the 

frights 
Of  my  fir.^t  crew,  their  curses  and  their 

groans. 
The  great  flame-banner  borne  by  Tene- 

riffe, 
The  compass,  like  an  old  friend  false  at 

last 
In  our  most  need,  appall'd  them,  and  the 

wind 
Still  westward,  and  the  weedy  seas  —  at 

length 
The  landhird,  and  the  branch  with  ber- 
ries on  if, 
The  carven  staff  —  and  last  the  light,  the 

light 


On  Guanahani !  but  I  changed  the  name; 
San  Salvador  I  call'd  it ;  and  the  light 
Grew   as   I   gazed,  and   brought  out  a 

broad  sky 
Of  dawning  over  —  not  those  alien  palms, 
The  marvel  of  that  fair  new  nature  — 

not 
That  Indian  isle,  but  our  most  ancient 

East, 
Moriah  with  Jerusalem  ;  and  I  saw 
The  glory   of   the   Lord   flasli    up,    and 

beat 
Thro'  all  the  homely  town  from  jasper, 

sapphire. 
Chalcedony,  emerald,  sardonyx,  sardius. 
Chrysolite,  beryl,  topaz,  chrysopiase. 
Jacinth,  and  amethyst  —  and  those  twelve 

gates, 
Pearl  —  and  I  woke,  and  thought  —  death 

—  I  shall  die  — 
I  am  written  in  the  Lamb's  own  Book  of 

Life 
To  walk  within  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Sunless  and  moonless,  utter  light  —  but 

no  ! 
The  Lord  had  sent  this  bright,  strange 

di'eam  to  me 
To  mind  me  of  the  secret  vow  I  made 
When  Spain  was  waging  war  against  the 

Moor  — 
I  strove  myself  with    Spain  against  the 

Moor. 
There  came  two  voices  from  the  Sepul- 
chre, 
Two  friars  crying  that  if    Spain  should 

oust 
The  Moslem  from  her  limit,  he,  the  fierce 
Soldan  of  Egypt,  would  break  down  ana 

raze 
The  blessed  tomb  of  Christ ;  whereon  I 

vow'd 
That,   if   our  Princes   harken'd    to    my 

prayer, 
Whatever  wealth  I  brought  from  that  new 

world 
Should,  in  this  old  be  consecrate  to  lead 
A  new  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And  free  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall. 

Gold  ?  I  iiad  brought  your  Princes  gold 

enough 
If  left  alone  !     Being  but  a  Genovese, 
I  am  handled  worse  than  had  I  been  a 

]\Ioor, 
And  breach'd  the  belting  wall  of  Cam- 

balu. 
And  given  the  Great  Khan's  palaces  to 

the  Moor, 


COLUMBUS. 


623 


Or  cliitch'd  the  sacred  crown  of  Prester 

John, 
And   cast  it   to   the   Moor :    but  had  I 

brought 
From  Solomon's  now-recover'd  Ophirall 
The  gold  that  Solomon's  navies  carried 

home, 
Would  that  have  gilded  me  ?   Blue  blood 

of  Spain, 
Tho'  quartering  your  own  royal  arms  of 

Spain, 
I  have  not :  blue  blood  and  black  blood 

of  Si)ain, 
The  noble  and  the  convict  of  Castile, 
Howl'd    me   from    Ili^paniola;   for  you 

know 
The  flies  at  home,  that  ever  swarm  about 
And  cloud  the  highest  heads,  and  mur- 
mur down 
Trutli  in  the  distaixce  —  these  out-buzz'd 

me  so 
That  even  our  prudent  king,  our  right- 
eous queen  — 
I  pray'd  them  being  so  calumniated 
They  would   commission  one  of  weight 

and  worth 
To  judge  between  my  slander'd  self  and 

me  — 
Fonseca  my  main  enemy  at  their  court, 
They  send  me  out  Itis  tool,Bovadilla,  one 
As  ignorant  and  ini])olitic  as  a  beast  — 
Blockish    irreverence,  brainless  greed  — 

who  sack'd 
My   dwelling,   seized   u])on    my    papers, 

loosed 
My  captives,  feed  the  rebels  of  the  crown, 
Sold  the  crown-farms  for  all  but  nothing, 

gave 
All  but  free  leave  for  all  to  work  the 

mines. 
Drove  me  and  my  good  brothers  home  in 

chains. 
And  gathering  ruthless  gold  —  a  single 

piece 
Weigh'd  nigh  four  thousand  Castillanos 

—  so 
They  tell  me — weigh'd    him  down  into 

the  abysm  — 
The  hurricane  of  the  latitude  on  him  fell, 
The  seas  of  our  discovering  over-roll 
Him  and  his  gold  ;  the  frailer  caravel. 
With  what  was  mine,  came  happily   to 

the  shore. 
There  was  a  glimmering  of  God's  hand. 

And  Goci 
Hath  more  thim  glimmer'd  on  rae.   O  my 
lord, 


I  swear  to  you  I  hoard  his  voice  between 
The    thunders    in    the    black    Veragua 

nights, 
"  O  soul  of  little  faitli,  slow  to  believe  ! 
Have  I  not   been   about   thee  from  thy 

birth? 
Given  thee  the  keys  of  the  great  Ocean 

sea? 
Set   thee   in  light  till  time  shall    be  no 

more  ? 
Is  it  I  who   have  deceived   thee  or  the 

world  ? 
Endure  !  thou  hast  done  so  well  for  men, 

that  men 
Cry  out  against  thee  :  was  it  otherwise 
With  niine  own  Son  ?  " 

And  more  than  once  in  days 
Of  doubt   and  cloud   and   storm,  when 

drowning  hope 
Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I  heard  his 

voice, 
"  Be  not  cast  down.     I  lead  thee  by  the 

hand. 
Fear  not."    And   I  shall  hear  his  voice 

again  — 
I  know  that  he  has  lead  me  all  my  life, 
I  am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  his  will  — 
His  voice  again. 

Still  for  all  that,  my  lord, 
I  lying  here  bedridden  and  alone. 
Cast  off,  put  by,  scosted    by  court   and 

king  — 
The  first  discoverer  starves  —  his  follow- 
ers, all 
Flower  into  fortune  — our  world's  way  — 

and  I, 
Without  a  roof  that  I  can  call  mine  own. 
With  scarce  a  coin  to  buy  a  meal  withal, 
And   seeing  what  a   door  for  scoundrel 

scum 
I  open'd   to  the  AVest,  thro'  which   the 

lust, 
Villanv,  violence,  avarice,  of  your  Spain 
Pour'd  in  on  all  those  happy  naked  isles  — 
Their    kindly   native    princes    slain   or 

slaved. 
Their  wives  and  children  Spanish  concu- 
bines. 
Their  innocent  hospitalities  quench'd  in 

blood. 
Some  dead  of  hunger,  some  beneath  the 

scourge, 
Some   over-labor'd,   some    by  their   o^\^ 

hands,  — 
Yea,  the  dear  mothers,  crazing  Nature, 
kill 


624 


COLUMBUS. 


Their  babies  at  the   breast,  for  hate  of 

Spain  — 
Ah,  God,  the  harmless  people  whom  we 

found 
In  Hispaniola's  island -Paradise  ! 
Who   took   us   for  the  very  Gods  from 

Heaven, 
And  we  have  sent  them  very  fiends  from 

Hell ; 
And  I  myself,  myself  not  blameles^:,  I 
Could   sometimes  wish  I  had  never  led 

the  way. 

Only  the  ghost  of  our  great  Catholic 
Queen 

Smiles  on  me,  saying,  "  Be  thou  com- 
forted ! 

This  creedless  people  will  be  brought  to 
Christ 

And  own  the  holy  governance  of  Rome." 

But  who  could  dream  that  we,  who  bore 

the  Cross 
Thither,  were  excommunicated  there, 
For  curbing  crimes  that  scandalized  the 

Cross, 
By  him,  the  Catalonian  Minorite, 
Rome's  Vicar  in  our  Indies  ?  wlio  believe 
These  hard    memorials  of   our  truth   to 

Spain 
Clung  closer  to  us  for  a  longer  term 
Thau  any  friend  of  ours  at  Court  1  and 

yet 
Pardon  —  too  harsh,  unjust.    I  am  rack'd 

with  pains 

You  see  that  I  have   hung  them  by  mv 
bed, 
And  I  will  have  them  buried  in  my  grave. 

Sir,  in  that  flight  of   ages  which  are 

God's 
Own    voice    to    justify  the   dead  —  per- 

cliance 
Spain    once  the  most  chivaliic    race   on 

eaitli, 
Spain  tlieu  the  mightiest,  wealthiest  realm 

on  earih. 
So  made  liy  me,  may  seek  to  unbury  me, 
To   lay  me  in   some   shrine  of    this   old 

Spain, 
Or  in  tliat  vaster  Spain  I  leave  to  Spain. 
Then  some  one  ^tanlling  by  my  gr.ive  will 

say, 
"  Behold  the   bones  of   Christopher  Co- 
lon "  — 
"  Ay,  but  the  chains,  what  do  they  mean  — 

the  chains  ?  "  — 


I  sorrow  for  that  kindly  child  of  Spain. 
Who  then  will  have  to  answer,  "  These 

same  chains 
Bound  these  same  bones  back  thro'  the 

Atlantic  sea, 
Which  he  unchain'd  for  all  the  world  to 

come." 

0  Queen  of  Heaven  who  seest  the  souls 

in  Hell 
And  purgatory,  I  suffer  all  as  much 
As  they  do — for  the  moment.    Stay,  my 

son 
Is  here  anon :  my  son  will  speak  for  me 
Ablier  than  I  can  in  these  spasms  that 

grind 
Bone  against  bone.     You  will  not.     One 

last  word. 

You  move  about  the  Court,  I  prtty  you 

idl 
King  Ferdinand  who  plays  with  me,  that 

one. 
Whose  life  has  been  no  play  with  him 

and  his 
Hidalgos — shipwrecks,  famines,  fevers, 

fights. 
Mutinies,    treacheries  —  wink'd   at,   and 

condoned  — 
That  I  am  loyal  to  him  till  the  death, 
And    ready  —  tho'   our    Holy   Catholic 

Queen, 
Who  fain  had  pledged  her  jewels  on  my 

first  voyage, 
Whose  hope  was  mine  to  spread  the  Cath- 
olic faith. 
Who  wept  witli  me  when  I  return'd  in 

chains. 
Who  sits  beside  the  blessed  Virgin  now, 
To  whom  I  send  my  prayer  by  night  and 

day  — 
She  is  gone  —  but  vou  will  tell  tlie  King, 

that  I, 
Rack'd  as  I  am  with  gout,  and  wrench'd 

with  pains 
Gain'd  in  the  service  of  His  Highness,  yet 
Am  readj'tosail  forth  on  one  last  voyage, 
And  readier,  if  the  King  would  hear,  to 

lead 
One  last  crusade  against  the  Saracen, 
And  save  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  thrall. 

Going  ?     I  am   old  and  slighted  :  you 

have  dared 
Somewhat  perhaps  in  coming  ?  my  poo» 

thanks ! 
I  am  but  an  alien  and  a  Genovese. 


THE   VOYAGE   OF   MAELDUNE. 


626 


I 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  MAELDUNE. 

(Founded  on  &r  Irish  Legend,     a.  d.  700.) 


I  WAS  the  chief  of  tlie  race  —  he  had 
stricken  my  father  dead  — 

But  I  f^ather'd  my  fellows  togetlicr,  I 
swore  I  would  strike  off  his  head. 

Each  of  tin m  look'd  like  a  king,  and  was 
no!)le  in  birth  as  in  worth. 

And  each  of  them  lioasied  he  sjirangfrom 
the  oldest  race  upon  earth. 

Each  was  as  brave  in  the  tight  as  the 
bravest  hero  of  soug, 

And  each  of  them  liefer  had  died  than 
have  done  one  another  a  wrong. 

He  lived  on  an  isle  in  the  ocean  —  we 
sail'd  on  a  Friday  morn  — 

He  that  had  slain  my  father  the  day  be- 
fore I  was  born. 


And  we  came  to  the  isle  in  the  ocean,  and 
there  on  the  shore  was  he. 

But  a  sudden  blast  blew  us  out  and  away 
thro'  a  boundless  sea. 


And  we  came  to  the  Silent  Isle  Chat  we 

never  had  touch'd  at  before. 
Where  a  silent  ocean  always  broke  on  a 

silent  shore, 
And  the  brooks  glitter'd  on  in  the  light 

without  sound,  and  the  long  wa- 
terfalls 
Pour'd  in   a  thunderlcss   plunge  to  the 

ba-e  of  the  mountain  walls. 
And  the  poplar  and  cypress  unshaken  by 

storm  flourish'd  up  beyor.d  sight, 
And  the  pine  shot  aloft  from  the  crag  to 

an  unbelievable  height, 
And  high  in  the  heaven  above  there  flick- 

er'd  a  songless  lark, 
And  the  cock  could  n't  crow,  and  the  bull 

could  n't  low,  and  the  dog  could  n't 

bark. 
And  round  it  we  went,  and  thro'  it,  but 

never  a  murmur,  a  breath  — 
It  was  ail  of  it  fair  as  life,  it  was  all  of  it 

quiet  as  death, 
And   we   hated   the    beautiful    Isle,   for 

whenever  we  strove  to  speak 
Our  voices  were  thinner  and  fainter  than 

any  flitter-mouse  sliriek ; 
And  the  men  that  were  mighty  of  tongue 

and  could  raise  such  a  battle-cry 


That  a  hundred  who  heard  it  would  rush 
on  a  thousand  lances  and  die  — 

O  they  to  be  dumb'd  by  the  (diarm  !  —  so 
fluster'il  witli  anger  were  they 

They  almost  fell  on  each  other ;  but  after 
we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Shouting,  w€ 

landed,  a  score  of  wild  birds 
Cried  from  the  topmost  summit  with  hu- 
man voices  and  words  ; 
Once  in  an  hour  they  crit  d,  and  wherever 

their  voices  peal  d 
The  steer  fell  down  at  the  plow  and  the 

harvest  died  from  the  held. 
And  the  men  dropt  dead  in  the  valleys 

and  half  of  the  cattle  went  lame, 
And  the  roof  sank  in  on  the  hearth,  and 

the  dwelling  broke  into  flame; 
And  the  shouting  of  these  wild  birds  ran 

into  the  hearts  of  my  crew. 
Till  they  shouted  along  with  theshoutittg 

aiul  seized  one  another  and  slew; 
But  I  drew  them  the  one  from  the  other; 

I  .saw  that  wc  could  not  stay, 
And  wo  left  the  dead  to  the  birds  and  we 

sail'd  with  our  wounded  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Flowers: 

their  breath  mc^t  us  out  on  the  seas, 
For  the  Spring  and  the  middle  Summer 

sat  each  on  the  lap  of  the  breeze  ; 
And  the  red  passion-flower  to  the  cliffs, 

and  the  dark  blue  clematis,  clung. 
And  starr'd  with  a  myriad  blossom  the 

long  convolvulus  hung; 
And  the  topmost  spire  of  the  mountain 

was  lilies  in  lieu  of  snow, 
And  the  lilies  like  glaciers  winded  down, 

running  out  below 
Thro'  the  fire  of  the  tulip  and  poppy,  the 

blaze  of  gorse,  and  the  blush 
Of  millions  of  roses  that  sprang  without 

leaf  or  a  thorn  from  the  bush  ; 
And   the   whole   isle-side   flashing   down 

from  the  peak  without  ever  a  tree 
Swept  like  a  torrent  of  gems  from   the 

sky  to  the  blue  of  tli3  sea ; 
And  we  roU'd  upon  capes  of  crocus  and 

vaunted  our  kith  and  our  kin. 
And  we  wallow'd  in  beds  of  lilies,  and 

chanted  the  triumph  of  Finn, 
Till  each  like  a  golden  image  was  poL 

I'jn'd  from  head  to  feet 


626 


THE  VOYAGE   OF  MAELDUNE. 


A.nd  each  was  as  drv  as  a  cricket,  with 
thirst  in  the  middle-day  heat. 

Blossom  and  blos.^om,  and  promise  of 
blossom,  hut  never  a  fruit ! 

And  we  liatcd  tiie  Flowering  Isle,  as  we 
hated  the  isle  that  w:is  mute, 

And  we  tore  up  tlie  flowers  by  tlie  million 
and  flung  them  in  bight  and  bay, 

And  we  left  bi't  a  naked  rock,  and  in  au- 
ger we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Fruits  :  all 
round  from  the  cliffs  and  the  capes, 

Purple  or  amber,  dangled  a  hundred 
fathom  of  grapes. 

And  the  warm  melon  lay  like  a  little  sun 
on  the  tawny  sand. 

And  the  fig  ran  up  from  tlie  beach  and 
rioted  over  the  land, 

And  the  mountain  arose  like  a  jewell'd 
throne  thro'  the  fragrant  air. 

Glowing  with  all-color'd  plums  and  witli 
golden  masses  of  pear, 

And  the  crimson  and  scarlet  of  berries 
that  flamed  upon  liine  anl  vine. 

But  in  every  berry  and  fruit  was  the  poi- 
sonous pleasure  of  wine  ; 

And  the  peak  of  the  mountain  was  apples, 
the  hugest  that  ever  were  seen. 

And  they  prest,  as  they  grew,  on  each 
other,  with  hardly  a  leaflet  be- 
tween. 

And  all  of  them  redder  than  rosiest 
health  or  than  utterest  shame. 

And  setting,  when  Even  descended,  tlie 
very  sunset  aflame  ; 

And  we  stay'd  three  days,  and  we  gorged 
and  we  madden'd,  till  every  one 
drew  ' 

His  sword  on  his  fellow  to  slay  him,  and 
ever  they  struck  and  they  slew  ; 

And  myself,  I  had  eaten  but  sparely,  and 
fought  till  I  sunder'd  the  fray, 

Then  I  l)ade  them  remember  my  father's 
death,  and  we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the   Isle  of  Fire  :  we 

were  lured  by  the  light  from  afar. 
For  the  peak  sent  up  one  league  of  fire 

to  the  Northern  Star  ; 
Lured  by  the   glare    and  tlie    blare,    but 

scarcely  could  stand  upright. 
For  the  whole  isle  shudder 'd  and  shook 

like  a  man  in  a  mortal  affright ; 


We  were  giddy  besides  with  the  fruits  we 

we  had  gorged,  and  so  crazed  that 

at  last 
There  were  someleap'd  into  the  fire  ;  and 

away  we  sail'd,  and  we  past 
Over  that  undersea  isle,  where  the  water 

is  clearer  than  air : 
Down   we  look'd  :    what  a  Garden !     O 

bliss,  what  a  Paradise  there  ! 
Towers  of  a  hap]uer  time,  low  down  in  a 

rainbow  deep 
Silent  palaces,  quiet  fields  of  eternal  sleep ! 
And  three  of  the  gentlest  and  best  of  my 

peo])le,  whate'er  I  could  say, 
Plunged  head  down  in  the  sea,  and  the 

Paradise  tremliled  awny. 


And   we   came  to   the   Bounteous  Isle, 

wheie  the  heavens  lean  low  on  the 

land, 
And   ever  at  dawn  from  the  cloud  glit- 
ter'd  o'er  us  a  sunbright  hand, 
Then  it  open'd  and  dropt  at  the  side  of 

each   man,    as   he    rose   from  his 

rest. 
Bread  enough  for  his  need  till  the  labor- 
less  day  dipt  under  the  West ; 
And  we  wander'd  about   it  and  thro'  it. 

O  never  was  time  so  good  ! 
And  we  sang   of   the   trium]ihs  of  Finn, 

and  the  boast  of  our  ancieut  blood. 
And  we  gazed  at  the  wauderiug  wave  as 

we  sat  by  the  gurgle  of  springs. 
And  we  chanted  the  songs  of  the  Bards 

and  the  glories  of  fairy  kings  ; 
But  at  length  we  began  to  be  weary,  to 

sigh,  and  to  stretch  and  yawn. 
Till  we  hated  the  Bounteous  Isle  and  ih" 

sunbright  liand  of  the  dawn, 
For  there  was  not  an  enemy  near,  bu. 

the  whole  green  Isle  was  our  own. 
And  we  took  to  playing  at  ball,  and  we 

took  to  throwing  the  stone, 
And  we   took    to   playing  at   battle,  but 

that  was  a  perilous  ))lay. 
For  the  passion  of  battle  was  in  us,  we 

slew  and  we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  Witches  and 
heard  their  musical  cry  — 

'  Come  to  us,  O  come,  come  "  in  the 
stormy  red  of  a  sky 

Dashing  the  fires  and  the  shadows  of 
dawn  on  the  beautiful  shapes, 


TO   THE   "NINETEENTH  CENTURY.* 


627 


For  a  wild  witch  naked  as  heaven  stood 
on  each  of  the  loftiest  ca])es, 

And  a  hundred  ranged  on  the  rock  like 
white  sea-birds  in  a  row, 

And  a  hundred  gamboli'd  aud  pranced 
on  the  wrecks  in  the  sand  be- 
low, 

And  a  hundred  splasii'd  from  the  ledges, 
am!  bosom'd  the  burst  of  the 
spray. 

But  I  knew  we  slionld  fall  on  each  other, 
and  hastily  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  in  an  evil  time  to  the  Isle 

of  tiie  Doul)le  Towers  : 
One  was  of  smooth  cut  stone,  one  carved 

all  over  with  flowers  : 
But  an  earthquake  always  moved  in  the 

hollows  under  the  dells. 
And    they   shock'd   on   each    other   and 

butted   each   other  with  dashing 

of  bells, 
And  the  daws  flew  out  of  the  Towers  and 

jangled  and  wrangled  in  vain. 
And  the  clash  ami  boom  of  the  bells  ran 

iuto  the  heart  and  the  brain, 
Till   the   passion   of   battle   was  on    us, 

and  all  took  sides  with  the  Tow- 
ers, 
There  were  some  for  the  clean-cut  stone, 

there   were  more  for  the  carven 

flowers. 
And  the  wrathful  thunder  of  God  peal'd 

over  us  all  the  day, 
For  the  one  half  slew  the  other,  and  after 

we  sail'd  away. 


Aud  we  came  to  the  Isle  of  a  Saint  wht 

had  sail'd  with  St.  Brendan  of  yore 
He  had  lived  ever  since  on  the  Isle  ana 

his  winters  were  fifteen-score, 
And    his   voice   was  low  as  from  other 

worlds,  and  his  eyes  were  sweet, 
And  his  white  hair  sank  to  his  luels^nc 

his  white  beard  fell  to  his  feet, 
And  he  spake  to  me,  "O  Macldune,  le 

be  this  purpose  of  thine  ! 
Kememher  the  words  of  the  Lord  when 

he  told  us  '  Vengeance  is  mine  ! ' 
His  fathers  have  slain  thy  fathers  in  war 

or  in  siu^^le  strife, 
Thy  fathers  have  slain  his  fathers,  each 

taken  a  life  for  a  life, 
Thy  father  had  slain  his  father,  how  long 

shall  the  murder  last  f 
Go  back   to   the  Isle  of  Finn   and  suffer 

the  Past  to  be  Past." 
And  we  kiss'd  the  fringe  of  his  beard  and 

we  pray'd  as  we  heard  him  pray. 
And   the   Holy  mr.n  lie  assoil'd  us,  and 

sadly  we  sail'd  away. 


And  we  came  to  the  Isle  we  were  blown 

from,  aud  there  on  the  shore  was 

he. 
The  man  that  had  slain  my  father.     I 

saw  him  and  let  him  be. 
O  weary  was  1  of  the  travel,  the  trouble, 

the  strife  and  the  sin. 
When  I  landed  again,  with  a  tithe  of  my 

men,  on  the  Isle  of  Finn. 


SONNETS, 


PREFATORY  SONNET. 
To  THE  "Nineteenth  Century." 

Those  that  of  late   had  fleeted  far  and 

fast 
To  touch  all  shore>s,  now  leaving  to  the 

skill 
Of  others  their  old  craft  seaworthy  still, 
Have  chartered  this;  where,  mindful  of 

the  past. 


Our   true  co-mates  regathei   round  the 

mast ; 
Of  diverse  tongue,  but  with  a  common 

will, 
Here,  in  this  roaring  moon  of  daffodil 
And  crocus,  to  put  forth  and  brave  the 

•  blast ; 
For   some,    decending   from   the   sacred 

peak 
Of  hoar  high-templed  Faith,  have  leagued 

again 


628 


TO   VICTOR   HUGO. 


Their  lot    tvith   ours  to  rove  the  world 

about ; 
And  some  are  wilder  comrades,  sworn  to 

seek 
If  any  golden  harbor  be  for  men 
In  seas   of  Death   and  sunless   gulfs  of 

Doubt. 


TO    THE    REV.  W.  H.  BROOK- 
FIELD. 

Brooks,  for  they  call'd  you  so  that  knew 

you  best, 
Old  Brooks,  wlio  loved  so  well  to  mouth 

my  rhymes. 
How  oil  we  two  have  heard  St.  Mary's 

chimes  ! 
How  oft  the  Cantab   supper,  host   and 

guest, 
Would  echo  helpless   laughter   to  your 

jest! 
How  oft  with  him  we  paced  that  walk  of 

limes, 
Him,  the  lost  light  of  those  dawn-golden 

times. 
Who   loved   you   well !     Now   both   are 

gone  to  rest. 
Yon  man  of  humorous  melancholy  mark, 
Dead  of  some  inward  agony  —  it  is  so  1 
Our  kindlier,  trustier  Jaques,  past  away  ! 
1  caiinot  laud  this  life,  it  looks  so  dark  : 
S'cias  opap  —  dream  of  a  shadow,  go  — 
God  bless  you.    I  shall  join  you  in  a  day. 


MONTENEGRO. 

Thky  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle 

sails. 
They  kept  thei-r  faith,  their  freedom,  on 

the  height, 
Chaste,  frugal,  savage,  arm'd  by  day  and 

night 
Against  tiie  Turk ;  whose  inroad  nowhere 

scales 


Their  headlong  passes,  but  his  footstep 

fails, 
And  red  with  blood   the  Crescent  reels 

from  fight 
Before  their  dauntless  hundreds,  in  prone 

fight 
By  thousands  down  the  crags  and  thro' 

the  vnles. 
0  smallest  among  peoples!  rough  rock 

throne 
Of  Freedom  !  warriors  beating  back  the 

swarm 
Of  Turkish  Islam  foi  five  hundred  years, 
Great  Tsernouora !  never  since  thine  o^vn 
Black  ridges  drew  the  cloud  and  'orake 

tiie  storm 
Has  breathed  a  race  of  mightier  moun- 
taineers. 


TO  VICTOR  HUGO. 

Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance, 
Cloud-weaver  of   ])hautasma!  hopes  and 

fears, 
French  of  the  French,  and  Lord  of  hu- 
man tears ; 
Child-lover ;  Bard  whose  fame-lit  laurels 

glance 
Darkening  tlie  wreaths  of  all  that  would 

advance, 
Beyond  our  strait,  their  claim  to  be  thy 

peers ; 
Weird    Titan  by  thy  winter   weight    of 

years 
As  yet  unbroken.  Stormy  voice  of  France  I 
Who  dost  not  love  our  England  — so  they 

say ; 
I  Unow  not  —  England,  France,  all  man 

to  be 
Will  make  one  people  ere  man's  race  be 

run  : 
And  I,  desiring  that  diviner  day, 
Yield  thee  full  thanks  for  thy  full  cour 

tesy 
To  younger  England  in  the  boy  my  sou, 


VICTOR    HUGO.     See  page  628. 


BATTLE   OF   BRUNANBURH. 


629 


TRA^^SLATIONS,  ETC. 


BATTLE  OF  BRUNANBURH. 


Constantinus,  King  of  the  Scots,  after  having 
jwora allegiance  to  Athelstau,  allied  himself  with 
the  Danes  of  Ireland  under  Anlaf,  and  invading 
England,  was  defeated  by  Athelstan  and  his 
brother  Edmund  with  great  slaughter  at  Brunau- 
bmh  in  the  year  937. 


Athelstan'  King. 
Lord  among:  E^rls, 
Bracek't-l)e»to\\er  and 
Baruii  of  Barons, 
He  uith  Iiis  brotlier, 
Edmund  Atlii-ling, 
Gaining  a  lifelong 
Glory  in  battle, 
Sk'W  with  liie  sword-edge 
There  by  Urunatiburb, 
Brake  the  siiield-wall, 
Hew'd  the  linden-wood,'^ 
Hack'd  the  battle-shield, 
Sons  of  Edward  with  hammer'd  brands. 


Theirs  was  a  greatness 
Got  from  their  Grandsires  — 
Theirs  that  so  often  in 
Strife  with  their  enemies 
Struck  for  their  hoards  and  their  hearths 
and  their  homes. 


Bow'd  the  spoiler, 

Bent  the  Scotsman, 

Fell  the  ship-crews 

Doom'd  to  the  death. 
AH  the  field  with  blood  of  the  fighters 

Flow'd,  from  when  first  the  great 

Sunstar  of  morning-tide, 

Lamp  of  the  Lord  God 

Lord  everlasting, 
Glode  over  earth  till  the  glorious  creature 

Sunk  to  his  setting. 

1  I  have  more  or  less  availed  myself  of  my  son's 
prose  translation  of  this  puem  in  the  Conteni' 
forary  Review  (November,  ISToJ. 

»  Shields  of  linden- wood. 


There  lay  many  a  mac 
Marr'd  by  the  javelin, 
Men  of  tiie  Northland 
Shot  over  shield. 
There  was  the  Scotsman 
Weaiy  of  war. 


We  the  West  Saxons, 
Long  as  the  daylight 
Lasted,  in  com  panics 
Troubled  the    track  of  the  host  that 
we  hated. 
Grimly  with  swords  that  were  sharp  from 

the  grindstone, 
Fiercely  we  hack'd  at  the  flyers  before  us. 


Mighty  the  Mercian, 
Hard  was  his  hand-play, 
Sparing  not  any  of 
Those  that  with  Anlaf, 
Warriors  over  the 
Weltering  waters 
Borne  in  the  bark's-bosom. 
Drew  to  this  island, 
Doom'd  to  the  death. 


Five  young  kings  put  asleep  by  the  sword- 
stroke. 
Seven  strong  Earls  of  the  army  of  Anlai 
Fell  on  the  war-field,  numberless  numbers, 
Shipmeu  and  Scotsmen. 


Then  the  Norse  leader, 

Dire  was  his  need  of  it, 

Few  were  his  following, 

Fled  to  his  war-ship  : 
Fleeted  his  vessel  to  sea  with  the  king  in 

it. 
Saving  his  life  on  the  fallow  flood. 


Also  the  crafty  one, 
Coustaatinus, 


630 


ACHILLES   OVER   THE   TRENCH. 


Crept  to  his  North  again. 
Hoar-headed  hero ! 


Slender  reason  had 

He  to  be  proud  of 

The  welcome  of  war-knives  — 

He  that  was  reft  of  Ids 

Folk  and  his  friends  that  had 

Fallen  in  conflict, 

Leaving  Ids  son  too 

Lost  in  tlie  carnage, 

Mangled  to  morsels, 

A  youngster  in  war  J 


Slende.*  reason  had 

He  to  be  glad  of 

The  clash  of  tlie  war-glaive  — 

Tr^iitor  and  trickster 

And  spuruer  of  treaties  — 

He  nor  liad  Anlaf 

With  armies  so  broken 

A  reason  for  braggin|r 

That  they  had  the  better 

In  perils  of  battle 

On  phices  of  slaughter  — 

The  struggle  of  standards. 

The  rush  of  the  javelins. 

The  crash  of  the  charges,^ 

The  wielding  of  weapons  — 

The  play  that  they  play'd  with 

The  children  of  Edward. 


Then  with  their  nail'd  prows 
Parted  the  Norsemen,  a 
Blood-reddeu'd  relic  of 
Javelins  over 
The  jarring  breaker,  the  deep-sea 

bilhjw, 
Shaping  their  way  toward  Djefln  ^ 

again, 
Shamed  in  their  souls. 


Also  the  bretiiren. 
King  and  Atheliug, 
Eacii  in  his  glory, 
Went  to  his  own  in  his  own  West-Saxon- 
land, 
Glad  of  the  war. 

1  Lit.  "  the  gathering  of  men." 
a  Dublin. 


Many  a  carcass  they  left  to  be  cannon. 
Many  a  livid  one,  many  a  sallcw-skiu  — 
Left  for  the  whitc-tail'd  eagle  to  tear  i., 

and 
Left  for  the  horuy-nibb'd  raven  to  rend 

it,  and 
Gave  to  the  garbaging  war-hawk  to  goigs 

it,  and 
That  gray  beast,  the  wolf  of  the  weald. 


Never  had  huiier 

Slaughter  of  heroes 

Slain  by  the  sword-edge  — 

Such  as  old  writers 

Have  writ  of  in  histories  — 

Hapt  in  this  i>le,  since 

Up  from  the  East  hitlier 

Saxon  and  Angle  from 

Over  the  broad  billow 

Broke  into  Britain  with 

Haughty  war-workers  who 

Harried  tlie  Welshmen,  when 

Earls  that  were  lured  by  the 

Hunger  of  glory  gat 

Hold  of  the  land. 


ACHILLES  OVER   THE   TRENCE. 

Iliad,  xviii.  202. 

So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass'd  away. 
Then  rose   Achilles   dear  to  Zeus;   and 

round 
The  warrior's  puissant  shoulders  Pallas 

flung 
Her  fringed  iegis,  and  around  his  head 
The  glorious  goddess  wreath'd  a  golden 

cloud. 
And  from  it  lighted  an  all-shining  flame. 
As  when  a  smoke  from    a  city  goes   to 

heaven 
Far  off  from  out  an  island  girt  by  foes, 
All  day  the  men  contend  in  grievous  war 
From    their   own    city,   but  with    set  of 

sun 
Their  fires  flame   thickly  and   aloft  the 

glare 
Flies  streaming,  if  perchance  the  neigh- 
bors round 
May  see,  and  sail  to   help  them  in  the 

war ; 
So  from  his  head  the  splendor  went  to 

heaven. 


1^ 


"5ant^^'=5^^"^^^' 


DANTE,     bee  page  631. 


TO   DANTE. 


631 


From  wall  to  dike  he  stept,  he  stood,  nor 

join'd 
The  Achieans  —  honoring  his  wise  moth- 
er's word  — 
There  standing,  shouted,  and  Pallas  far 

away 
Call'd ;  and  a  boundless  panic  shook  the 

foe. 
For  like  the  clear  voice  when  a  trumpet 

shrills. 
Blown  by  the  fierce   beleaguerers  of  a 

town, 
So  rang  the  clear  voice  of  jEakides ; 
And  wlieu  the  brazen  cry  of  ^Eakides 
Was  heard  among  the  Trojans,  all  their 

hearts 
Were  troubled,  and  the  fuU-maned  horses 

whirl'd 
The  chariots    backward,  knowing  griefs 

at  hand  ; 
And  sheer-astounded   were    the    chariot- 
eers 
To  see  the  dread,  unweariable  fire 
That   always    o'er   the    great   Peleions' 

head 
Burn'd.for  the  bright-eyed  goddess  made 

it  burn. 
Thrice  from  the  dike  he  sent  his  mighty 

shout. 
Thrice  backward  reel'd  the  Trojans  and 

allies  ; 
And  there  and  then  twelve  of  their  noblest 

died 
Among  their  spears  and  chariots. 


TO    THE   PRINCESS    FREDERICA 
ON  HER  MARRIAGE. 

0  Tou  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the 

King  till  he  past  away 
From  the  darkness  of  life  — 
He  saw  not  his  daughter  —  he  blest  her : 

the  blind  King  sees  you  to-day, 
He  blesses  the  wife. 


SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

On  the  cenotaph  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Not  here  !  the  white  North  has  thy  bones ; 
and  thou. 

Heroic  sailor-soul. 
Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage  now 

Toward  no  earthly  pole. 


TO  DANTE. 

(Written  at  request  of  the  Florentines.) 

King,  that  hast  reign 'd  six  hundred  years, 

and  grown 
In  power,  and  ever  growest,  since  thine 

own 
Fair  Florence  honoring  thy  nativity. 
Thy  Florence  now  the  crown  of  Italy, 
Hath  sought  the  tribute  of  a  verse  from 

me, 
I,  wearing  but  the  garland  of  a  day. 
Cast  at  thy  feet  one  flower    that   fades 

away. 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  HEAVY 
BRIGADE  AT  BALACLAVA. 

October  25,  1854. 


The  charge  of  the  gallant  three  hundred, 
the  Heavy  Brigade  ! 

Down  tlie  hill,  down  the  hill,  thousandsof 
Russians, 

Thou.sands  of  horsemen,  drew  to  the  val- 
ley —  and  stay'd  ; 

For  Scarlett  and  S'carlett's  three  hun- 
dred were  riding  by 

When  the  points  of  the  Russian  lances 
arose  in  the  sky  ; 

And  he  call'd  "  I-eft  wheel  into  line  !  " 
and  ihey  whtel'd  and  obey'd. 

Then  he  look'd  at  the  host  that  had 
halted  he  knew  not  why. 

And  he_  turn'd  half  round,  and  he  bad 
his  trumpeter  sound 

To  the  charge,  and  he  rode  on  ahead,  as 
he  waved  his  blade 

To  the  gallant  three  hundred  whose 
glory  will  never  die  — 

"Follow,"  and  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill, 
up  tiie  hill,  follow'd  the  HeaTj 
Brigade. 


The  trumpet,  the  gallop,  the  charge,  and 

the  might  of  the  figiu  ! 
Thousands   of    horsemen   had    gather'd 

there  on  the  height, 
With  a  wing  push'd  out  to  the  left,  and 

a  wing  to  the  right. 
And  who  shall  escape  if  they  close  ?  but 

he  dash'd  up  alone 
i  Thro  the  great  grey  slope  of  men, 


632 


HANDS   ALL   ROUND. 


Sway'd  his  sabre,  and  held  his  own 
Like  an  Englislimau  there  and  then  ; 
All  in  a  moment  follow'd  with  force, 
Three  that  were  next  in  their  fiery  course. 
Wedged  themselves  in  between  horse  and 

horse. 
Fought  for  their  lives  in  the  narrow  gap 

they  had  made  — 
Four  amid  thousands!  and  up  the  hill, up 

the  hill 
Gallopt   the  gallant    three  hundred,  the 

Heavy  Brigade. 


Fell  lii^e  a  cannonshot, 

Burst  like  a  tiiunderbolt, 

Crash'd  like  a  hurricane. 

Broke  thro'  the  mass  from  below, 

Drove  thro'  the  midst  of  the  foe, 

Plunged  up  and  down,  to  and  fro, 

Rods  flashing  blow  upon  blow, 

Brave  Imiiskillens  and  Greys 

Whirling  their  sabres  in  ciicles  of  light ! 

And  some  of  iis,  all  in  amaze. 

Who  were  held  for  a  while  from  the  fight, 

And  were  only  standing  at  gaze, 

When  the  dark-muftled  Russian  crowd 

Folded  ii3  wings  from   the  left  and  the 

right, 
And  roll'd  them  around  like  a  cloud,  — 
O  mad   for  the  charge    and    the   battle 

were  we, 
When  our  own  good  redcoats  sank  from 

sight. 
Like  drops  of  blood  in  a  dark-grey  sea. 
And  we  turned  to  each  other,  whispering, 

all  dismay 'd, 
Lost  are  the  gallant   three    hundred  of 

Scarlett's  Brigade ! 


"  Lost  one  and  all  "  were  the  words 
Mutter'd  in  our  dismay  ; 
But  they  rude  like  Victors  and  Lords 
Tiiro'  the  forest  of  lances  and  swords 
In  the  heart  of  the  Russian  hordes. 
They  rode,  or  they  stood  at  bay  — 
Struck  with  the  sword-hand  and  slew, 
Down  with  the  bridle-hand  drew 
The  foe  from  the  satldle  and  threw 
Underfoot  there  in  the  fray  — 
Ranged  like  a  storm  or  stood  like  a  rock 
In  the  wave  of  a  stormy  day  ; 
Till  suddenly  shock  upon  siiock 
Stagger'd  the  mass  from  without, 
Drove  it  in  wild  disarray. 
For  our  men  gallopt  up  with  a  cheer  and 
a  shout, 


And  the  foeman  surged,  and  waver 'd, 

and  reel'd 
Up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  up  the  hill,  out 

of  the  field. 
And  over  the  brow  and  away. 


Glory  to  each  and  to  all,  and  the  charge 

that  they  made ! 
Glory  to  all  tlie  three  hundred,  atd  aD 

the  Brigade ! 

Note.  —  The  "  three  hundred  "'  of  the  "  Ileavj 
Brigade  "'  who  made  this  lanious  charge  were 
the  Sco^s  Greg's  and  the  .second  squadron  of 
Inniskilliugs  ;  the  rcniauider  of  the  "  Heavy 
Brigade"'  subsequently  dai-hiug  up  to  their 
support. 

The  "  three '"  were  Scarlett's  aide-de-camp, 
Elliot,  and  the  trumpeter  and  Shegog  the  or- 
derly, who  had  been  close  behind  him. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND!* 

First   pledge   our   Queen    this    solemn 
night, 
Then  drink  to  England,  every  guest ; 
That  man  's  the  best  t'osmopolite 

Who  loves  his  native  country  best! 
May  freedom's  oak  forever  live. 

With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day; 
That  man  's  the  best  Conservative 

Who  lops  the  mouldered  branch  away. 

Hands  aii  round  ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound  ! 
To  this  gnat  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 

my  friends, 
And   the  great  name  of  England  rouod 
aud  round. 

To  all  the  loyal  hearts  who  long 

To  keep  our  English  empire  whole  ! 
To  all  our  noble  sons,  the  strong 

New  England  of  the  Southern  Pole! 
To  England  under  Indian  skies, 

To  those  dark  millions  of  her  realm  ! 
To  Canada  whom  we  love  and  prize, 
Whatever  statesman  hold  the  helm  ! 

Hands  all  round ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  confound  I 
To  this  great  name  of  England  drink,  my 

friends. 
And  all  her  glorious  empire,  round  and 
round. 

To  all  our  statesmen  so  they  be 
True  leaders  of  the  land's  desire  ! 

*  Written  after  the  Queen's  escape  from  assaft 
sination,  1882. 


TO  VIRGIL. 


633 


To  both  our  Houses*  may  they  see 

Beyond  the  boroii<rh  and  the  shire ! 
We  sailed  wherever  ship  could  sail 

We  founded  many  a  mijzhty  state, 
Pray  God  our  jjreatiiess  may  not  fail 
Througlv  craven  fears  of  being  great. 
Hands  all  round  ! 
God  the  traitor's  hope  eonfnuiid  ! 

To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink, 
my  friends, 
And  the   great  name  of  England  round 
and  round. 


TO   VIRGIL 

WRITTEV  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  THE 
MANTtJAN'S  FOR*  THE  NINETEENTH 
CENTENARY    OF    VIRGIL's    DEATH. 


Roman  Virgh-,  thou  that  singest 
Ilion's  lofty  temples  robed  in  fire, 

Ilion  falling,  Home  arising, 

wars,  and  filial  faitii,  and  Dido's  pyre  ; 


Landscape  lover,  lord  of  language, 
more   than   he  that  sang  the   Works 
and  Days, 
All  the  chosen  coin  of  fancy 

flashing    out    from    many    a    golden 
phrase ; 


Thou  that  singest  wheat  and  woodland, 
tilth  and  vineyard,  hive  and  horse  and 
herd ; 

AH  the  charm  of  all  the  Mnscs 
often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word ; 


Poet  of  the  happy  Tityrus 
piping  underneath  his  beechen  bowers  ; 


Poet  of  the  poet-satyr 

whom  the   laughing  shepherd   bound 
with  flowers; 


Chanter  of  the  PoUio,  glorying 
in  the  blissful  years  again  to  be, 

Sunmiers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 
uulaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea : 


Thou  that  scest  Universal 

Natuie  moved  by  Universal  Mind; 
Thou  majestic  in  thy  sadness 

at  the  doubtful  doom  of  human  kind: 


Light  among  the  vanished  ages ; 
star    that    gildest    yet   this    phantom 
shore  ; 
Golden  branch  amid  the  shadows, 

kings  and  realms  that  pass  to  rise  no 
more ; 


Now  thy  Fornm  roars  no  longer, 
fallen  every  purjile  Csesar's  dome  • 

Tho'  thine  ocean-roll  of  rhythm 
sound  for  ever  of  Imperial  Koine  ■ 


Now  the  Rome  of  slaves  hath  perish'd, 
and  the  Rome  of  freemen  holds  her 
place, 

I,  from  out  the  Northern  Island, 

suuder'd  once  from  all  the  human  race. 


I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I  that  loved  thee  since  my  day  b<v 
gan, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man 


I 


634 


ALEXANDER. 


EARLY  SONNETS. 


ALEXANDER. 

Wabrior   of  God,  whose   strong  right 

arm  debased 
The  throne  of  Persia,  when  her  Satrap 

bled 
At  Issus  by  the  Syrian  gates,  or  fled 
Beyond  the  Mem'miau  naphtha-pits,  dis- 
graced 
Forever  —  thee  (thy  pathway  sand-erased ) 
Gliding  with  equal  crowns  two  serpents 

led 
Joyfnl  to  that  palm-planted  fountain-fed 
Ammonian  Oasis  in  the  waste. 
There  in  a  silent  .shade  of  laurel  brown 
Apart  the  Chamian  Oracle  divine 
Shelter'd  liis  unapproached  mysteries  : 
High  things  were  spoken  there,  unhanded 

down  ; 
Only  they  saw  thee  from  the  secret  shrine 
Returning  with  hot  cheek    and  kindled 
eyes. 


If  I  were  loyed,  as  I  desire  to  be. 

What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the 

earth, 
And  range   of  evil    between   death  and 

birth, 
That  I  should  fear,  —  if  I  were  loved  by 

thee  ? 
All    the    inner,  all   the  outer  world   of 

pain 
Clear  Love   would   pierce  and  cleave,  if 

thou  wert  mine, 
As  I  have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the 

main. 
Fresh-water  springs  come  up  through  bit- 
ter brine. 


'T  were  joy,  not  fear,  claspt  /land-in-hand 

witii  thee, 
To  wait  for  death  —  unite  —  careless  of 

all  ills, 
Apart  upon  a  mountain,  tho'  the  surge 
Of  some   new   deluge   from   a  thousaLC, 

hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the 

gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see 


THE  BRIDESMAID. 

0  BRIDESMAID,  ere  the  happy  knot  was 

tied. 
Thine  eyes  so  wept  that  they  could  hardly 

see ; 
Thy  sister  smiled  and  said,  "  No  tears  for 

me  ! 
A  happy  bridesmaid  makes  a  happy  bride." 
And   then,  the  couple   standing  side  by 

side, 
Love  lighted  down  between  them  full  of 

glee, 
And  over  his  left  shoulder   laugh'd  at 

thee, 
"  O  happy   bridesmaid,   make    a  happy 

bride." 
And  all  at  once  a  pleasant  truth  I  learn 'd, 
For  while  the  tender  service  made  thee 

weep, 

1  loved  thee  for  the  tear  thou  couldst  not 

hide. 
And  prest  thy  hand,  and  knew  the  press 

return'd 
And  thought,  "  My  life  is  sick  of  single 

sleep : 
O  happy  bridesmaid,  make  a  happy  bride." 


CHILD-SONGS. 


I. 

THE  CITY  CHILD. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  yon 

wander  ? 
Whither  from  this  pretty  home,  the  home 

where  mother  dwells  1 


"  Far  and  far  away,"  said  the  dainty  lit- 
tle maiden, 

"All  among  tlie  gardens,  auriculas,  anem- 
ones, 

Roses  and  lilies  and  Canterbury -bells." 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  jou 
wander  1 


"FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE. 


635 


Whither  from  this  pretty  house,  this  city- 
house  of  ours  ? 

"Par  and  far  away,"  said  the  dainty  lit- 
tle maiden, 

"  All  among  the  meadows,  the  clover  and 
the  clematis. 

Daisies  and  kingcups  and  honeysuckle- 
flowers." 


II. 
MINNIE  AND   WINNIE. 

Minnie  aud  Winnie 

Slept  in  a  shell. 
Sleep,  little  ladies ! 

And  they  slept  well. 


Pink  was  the  shell  within, 

Silver  without; 
Sounds  of  the  great  sea 

Wander'd  about. 

Sleep,  little  ladies! 

Wake  not  soon! 
Echo  on  echo 

Dies  to  the  moon. 

Two  bright  stars 

Peep'd  into  the  shell. 
"  What  are  they  dreaming  of? 
Who  can  tell  1  " 

Started  a  green  linnet 

Out  of  the  croft; 
Wake,  little  ladies. 

The  sun  is  aloft  ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


ENGLAND  AND  AMERICA  IN  1782. 

0  Tiiou,  that  sendest  out  the  man 

To  rule  by  land  and  sea, 

Strong  mother  of  a  Lion-line, 

Be  proud  of  tliose  strong  sons  of  thine 

Who  wrench'd  their  rights  from  thee  ! 

What  wonder,  if  in  noble  heat 
Those  men  thine  arms  withstood, 
Retangbt  the  lesson  thou  hadst  taught, 
And  in  thy  spirit  with  thee  fought  — 
Who  sprang  from  English  blood  ! 

But  Thou  rejoice  with  liberal  joy. 
Lift  up  thy  rocky  face, 
And  shatter,  when  the  storms  are  black. 
In  many  a  streaming  torrent  back, 
The  seas  that  shock  thy  base .' 

Whatever  harmonies  of  law 

The  growing  world  assume. 

Thy  work  is  thine  —  The  single  note 

From  that  deep  chord  which  Hampden 

smote 
Will  vibrate  to  the  doom. 


ON  TRANSLATIONS   OF   HOMER. 

Hexameters  and  Pentameters. 

These    lame   hexameters    the    strong- 
wing'd  music  of  Homer : 


No  —  but  a  most  burlesque  barbarous 

experiment. 
When  was  a  harsher  sound  ever  heard,  ye 
Muses,  in  England  ? 
When  did  a  frog  coarser  croak  upon 
our  Helicon  ? 
Hexameters  no  worse   than  daring  Ger- 
many gave  us. 
Barbarous  experiment,  barbarous  hex- 
ameters. 


"FRATER  AVE    ATQUE    VALE." 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  toyourSir- 
mione  row! 

So  they  row'd,  and  there  we  landed  — 
"  0  venusta  Sirmio !  " 

There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  of  olive 
in  the  summer  glow, 

There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where  the 
purple  flowers  grow. 

Came   that   "  Ave   atque    Vale "  of  the 
Poet's  hopeless  woe, 

Tenderest  of  Roman  poets  nineteen  hun- 
dred years  ago, 

"  Frater  Ave  atque  Vale  "  —  as  we  wan- 
der'd to  and  fro 

Gazing   at  the   Lydian   laughter   of  the 
Garda  Lake  below 

Sweet  Catulliis's  all-but-island,  olive-sil- 
very Sirmio ! 


636 


DESPAIR. 


DESPAIR. 

A  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE. 

A  man  and  his  wife  having  lost  faith  in  a  God, 
and  hope  of  a  life  to  come,  and  being  utterly 
miserable  in  this,  resolve  to  end  themselves  by 
drowning.  The  woman  is  drowned,  but  the  man 
is  rescued  by  a  minister  of  the  sect  he  had  aban- 
doned. 


Is  it  you,  tliat  preach'd  iu  the  chapel 
there  looking  over  the  sand? 

FoUow'd  U.S  too  that  night,  and  dogg'd  us, 
and  drew  me  to  laud  ? 


What  did  I  feel  that  night  ?     You  are 

curious.     How  should  I  tell  ? 
Does  it  matter  so  much  what  1  felt  ?    You 

rescued  me  —  yet — was  it  well 
That  you    came  uuwish'd  for,  uucall'd, 

between  me  and  the  deep  and  my 

doom 
Three  days  since,  three  more  dark  days 

of  the  Godless  gloom 
Of   a  life   without   sun,  without  health, 

without  hope,  without  any  delight 
In  anything   here   upon  earth '?    b'lt   ah 

(lod,  tliat  night,  that  uight 
When  the  rolling  eyes  of  the  light-iiouse 

tliere  on  the  fatal  neck 
Of  laud  running  out   into   rock — they 

had   saved  many  hundreds    from 

wreck — 
Glared  on  our  way  toward  death,  I  remem- 
ber I  thought,  as  we  past, 
Does  it  matter    huw  many  they  saved? 

we  are  all  of  us  wreck'd  at  last  — 
"Do  you  fear?"  and  there  came  thro' 

the  roar  of  the  breaker  a  whisper, 

a  breath 
"  Fear  ?     am   I   not   with    you  ?     I   am 

frighted  at  life,  not  death." 


And  the  suns  of  the  limitless  Universe 
sparkled  and  shone  in  the  sky, 

Flashing  with  tires  as  of  God,  but  we 
knew  that  their  light  was  a  lie  — 

Bright  as  with  deathless  hope  —  but,  how- 
ever they  sparkled  and  shone. 

The  dark  little  worlds  running  round 
them  were  worlds  of  woe  like  our 
own  — 

No  soul  in  the  heaven  above,  no  soul  on 
the  earth  below, 

A  fiery  scroll  written  over  with  lamenta- 
tion and  woe. 


See,  we  were  nursed  in  the  drear  night-fold 

of  your  fatalist  creed, 
And  we  tiirn'd  to  the  growing  dawn,  we 

had  hoped  lor  a  dawn  indeed, 
Wheu  the  light  of  a  Sun  that  was  coming 

would    scatter   the  ghosts   of   the 

Past, 
And  the  cramping  creeds  that  had  mad- 

deu'd  the  peoples  would  vanish  al 

last. 
And  we  broke  away  from  the  Christ,  ou" 

humau  brother  and  friend, 
For  He  spoke,  or  it  seem'd  that  He  spoke, 

of  a   Hell   without  help,  without 

end. 

V. 

Hoped  for  a  dawn  and  it  came,  but  the 

promise  had  faded  away  ; 
We  had  past  from    a  cheerless   night   to 

the  glare  of  a  drearier  day  ; 
He  is  only  a  cloud  and  a  smoke  who  was 

once  a  pillar  of  fire, 
The  guess  of  a  worm  in  the  dust  and  the 

shadow  of  its  desire  — 
Of  a  worm  as  it  writhes  in  a  world  of  the 

weak  trodden  down  by  the  strong. 
Of  a  dy  inu^  worm  iu  a  world,  all  massacre, 

murder,  and  wrong. 


O  we  poor  orphans  of  nothing  —  alone  on 

that  lonely  shore  — 
Born  of  the  brainless  Nature  who  knew 

not  that  which  she  bore ! 
Trusting   no  longer  that  earthly  flower 

would  he  iieaveuly  fruit  — 
Come    from    the  brute,  poor   souls  —  no 

souls  —  and  to  die  with  the  brute  — 


Nay,  but  I  am  not  claiming  your  pity  :  I 

know  you  of  old  — 
Small   pity  for   those  that   have  ranged 

from  the  narrow  warmth  of  vour 

fold. 
Where  you  bawl'd  the  dark  side  of  youi 

faith  and  a  God  of  eternal  rage. 
Till  you  flung  us  back  on  oui'selves,  and 

the  human  heart,  and  the  Age. 


But   pity  —  the  Pagan  held    it  a  vice  — 

was  in  her  and  in  iTie, 
Helpless,  taking  the  place  of  the  pitying 

God  that  should  be  I 


DESPAIR. 


637 


I 


Pity  for  all  that  aches  in  the  grasp  of  an 

idiot  power, 
And  pity  for  cur  own  selves  ou  an  earth 

tliat  bore  not  a  flower ; 
Pity  for  ail  that  suffers  on  laud  or  in  :iir 

or  the  deep, 
And   pity    for   our   own  selves    till    we 

lony'd  for  eternal  sleep. 


"Lightly  step  over  the  sands!  tlie  wa- 
ters—  you  lieai-  theiii  call! 

Life  with  its  anguish,  and  horrors,  and 
errors  —  away  with  it  all !  " 

And  siie  laid  her  hand  in  my  own  —  she 
was  always  loyal  and  sweet  — 

Till  the  points  of  the  foani  in  the  dusk 
came  playing-  ahont  our  feet. 

There  was  a  strong  sea  current  would 
sweep  us  out  to  the  main. 

"  Ah  God  "  tho'  I  felt  as  1  spoke  I  was 
taking  the  name  in  vain  — 

"Ah  God  "  and  we  turn'd  to  each  other, 
we  kiss'd,  we  embraced,  she  and  I, 

Knowing  the  Love  we  were  used  to  be- 
lieve everlasting  would  die : 

We  had  read  their  know-notliing  books 
and  we  lean'd  to  the  darker  side  — 

Ah  God,  sliould  we  find  Him,  perhaps, 
perhaps,  if  we  died,  if  we  died  ; 

We  never  had  found  Him  on  earth,  this 
earth  is  a  fatherless  Hell  — 

"  Dear  Love,  for  ever  and  ever,  for  ever 
and  ever  farewell," 

Never  a  cry  so  desolate,  not  since  the 
world  began  1 

Never  a  kiss  so  sad,  no,  not  since  the 
coming  of  man. 


But  the  blind  wave  cast  me  ashore,  and 

you  saved  me,  a  valueless  life. 
Not   a  grain   of    gratitude   mine !     You 

have   parted    the    man    from    the 

wife. 
I  am  left  alone  on    the  land,  she  is  all 

alone  in  the  sea, 
If  a  curse  meant  aught,  I  would  curse  you 

for  not  having  let  me  be. 


Visions  of  youtli  —  for  my  brain  was 
drunk  witli  the  water,  it  seems; 

I  had  past  into  perfect  quiet  at  length 
out  of  pleasant  dreams, 


And  the  transient  trouble  of  drov/ning  — 
what  was  it  when  match'd  with  the 
pains 

Of  the  hellish  heat  of  a  wretched  life 
rushing  back  thro'  the  veins  ? 


Why  rhould  I  live  ?     One  son  had  forged 

ou  liis  father  and  tied, 
And  if  I  believed  in  a  God,  I  would  thank 

him,  the  other  is  dead. 
And  there  was  a  baby-girl,  that  had  never 

look'd  on  the  light : 
Happiest  she  of  us  all,  for  she  past  from 

the  night  to  the  night. 


But  the  crime,  if  a  crime,  of  her  eldest- 
horn,  her  gloiy,  her  boast. 

Struck  hard  at  the  tender  heart  of  the 
mother,  and  broke  it  almost  ; 

Tho',  glory  and  shame  dying  out  for  ever 
in  endless  time. 

Does  it  matter  so  much  whether  crown 'd 
for  a  virtue,  or  hang'd  for  a  crime  1 


And  ruin'd  by  him,  by  him,  I  stood  there, 
naked,  amazed 

In  a  world  of  arrogant  opulence,  fear'd 
myself  turning  crazed, 

And  I  would  not  be  mock'd  in  a  mad- 
house !  and  she,  the  delicate  wife, 

With  a  grief  that  could  only  be  cured,  if 
cured,  by  the  surgeon's  knife, — 


Why   should  we  bear  with  an   hour  of 

torture,  a  moment  of  pain, 
If  every  man  die  for  ever,  if  all  his  griefs 

are  in  vain, 
And  the  homeless  planet  at  length  will  be 

wheel'd  thro'  the  silence  of  space, 
Motherless  evermore  of  an  ever-vanishing 

race. 
When   the  worm  shall  have  writhed  its 

last,  and  iis  last  brother-worm  will 

have  fled 
From  the  dead  fossil  skull  that  is  left  in 

the  rocks  of  an  earth  that  is  dead  ? 


Have  1  crazed  myself  over  their  horrible 
infidel  writings  ?     O  yes, 

For  these  are  the  new  dark  ages,  you  see, 
of  the  popular  press. 


638 


EARLY   SPRING. 


When  the  bat  comes  out  of  his  cave,  and 

the  owls  are  whooping  at  noon, 
And  Doubt  is  the  lord  of  this  dunghill 

and  crows  to  tlie  sun  and  the  moon, 
Till  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  of  our  science 

are  both  of  them  turu'd  into  blood. 
And  Ho])e  will  have    broken  her  heart, 

running  after  a  shadow  of  good  ; 
For    their   knowing    and   kuow-nothiug 

books  are  scatter'd  from  hand  to 

hand  — 
We  have  knelt  in  your  know-all  cha])el 

too  looking  over  the  sand. 

XVII. 

What !  I  should  call  on  that  Infinite  Love 
th;»t  has  served  us  so  well  ? 

Infinite  cruelty  rather  that  made  ever- 
lasting Hell, 

Made  us,  foreknew  us,  foredoom'd  us, 
and  does  what  he  will  with  his 
own; 

Better  our  dead  brute  mother  who  never 
has  heard  us  groan! 


Hell  ?  if  the  souls  of  men  were  immortal, 

as  men  have  been  told. 
The  lecJier  would  cleave  to  his  lusts,  and 

the   miser   would    yeaiu    for   his 

gold, 
And  so  there   were   Hell  for  ever !  but 

were  there  a  God  as  you  say, 
His  Love  would   have  power   over  Hell 

till  it  utterly  vanish'd  away. 


Ah  yet — I  have  had  some  glimmer,  at 
times,  in  my  gloomiest  woe. 

Of  a  God  behind  all  —  after  all  —  the 
great  God  for  aught  that  I  know  ; 

But  the  God  of  Love  and  of  Hell  to- 
gether —  they  cannot  be  thought. 

If  there  be  such  a  God,  may  the  Great 
God  curse  him  and  bring  him  to 
nought ! 


Blasphemy !    whose   is   the  fault  ?    is  it 

mine  1  for  why  would  you  save 
A    madman  to  vex   you   with   wretched 

words,  who  is  best  in  his  grave? 
Blasphemy  !  ay,  why  not,  being  damn'd 

beyond  hope  of  grace  ? 
O  would  I  were  yonder  with  her,  and 

away  from  your  faith   and  your 

face! 


Blasphemy  !  true !  I  have  scared  you  pali 
with  my  scandalous  talk, 

But  the  blasphemy  to  mij  mind  lies  all  in 
the  way  that  you  walk. 


Hence !  she  is  gone !  can  I  stay  ?  can  I 

breathe  divorced  from  the  Past  ? 
You  needs  must  have  good  lynx-eyes  if 

I  do  not  escape  you  at  last. 
Our  orthodox  coroner  doubtless  will  find 

it  a  felo-de-se. 
And  the  stake  and  the  cross  road,  fool,  if 

you  will,  does  it  matter  to  me  1 


EAKLY  SPRING. 


Once  more  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  domes  the  red-plow'd  hills 
With  loving  blue  ; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills. 
The  throstles  too. 


Opens  a  door  in  Heaven  ; 

From  skies  of  glass 
A  Jacob's  ladder  falls 

On  greening  grass. 
And  o'er  the  mountain-walls 

Young  angels  i)ass. 


Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 
And  burst  the  buds, 

And  shine  the  level  lands. 
And  flash  the  floods  ; 

The  stars  are  from  their  hands 
Flung  thro'  the  woods,  , 


The  woods  with  living  airs 
How  softly  fann'd, 

Light  airs  from  where  the 
All  down  the  sand, 

Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 
Heard  by  the  land. 


O  follow,  leaping  blood. 
The  season's  lure  ! 

O  heart,  look  down  and  up. 
Serene,  secure. 

Warm  as  the  crocus  cup. 
Like  snow-drops,  pure  1 


THE  CUP. 


630 


Past,  Future  f,'limpse  and  fade 
Tliio'  some  sliylit  spell, 

Some  gleam  from  yonder  vale, 
Some  far  blue  fell. 

And  sympathies,  how  frail, 
lu  sound  and  smell  ! 


Till  at  thy  chuckled  note. 
Thou  twinkling  bird, 
The  fairy  fancies  range. 


And,  lightly  stirred, 
Biug  little  bells  of  chuuge 
From  word  to  word. 


i'or  now  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  nil  things  new, 

And  thaws  the  cold,  and  tills 
The  flower  witli  dew  ; 

i  he  blackbirds  huve  their  willSj 
The  poets  too. 


THE  CUP. 


A  TRAGEDY. 

DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

GALATIANS. 


SrNORix,  an  ex-  Tetrarch. 
SiNNATDS,a  Tetrarch. 
Attendant. 
Boy 


Antonius,  a  Roman  General. 
Publics. 


ROMANS. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  -  DISTANT  VIEW  OF  A 
CITY  OF  GAL  ATI  A. 

4s  the  curtain  rises,  Priestesses  are  heard 
sinrjing  in  the  Temple.  Boy  discovered 
on  a  pathway  among  Rocks,  picking 
grapes.  A  party  of  Jioman  Soldieis, 
guarding  a  prisoner  in  chains,  come  down 
the  pathway  and  exeunt. 

Enter  Svnorix  (looking  round).  Singing 
ceases. 


Pine,  beech  and  plane,  oak,  walnut,  apri- 
cot, 

Vine,  cypress,  poplar,  myrtle,  bower- 
ing-in 

The  city  where  she  dwells.  She  past  me 
here 

Three  years  ago  when  I  was  flying  from 

My  Tetrarchy  to  Rome.  I  almost  touch'd 
her  — 


Maid. 
Phoebe. 

Camma,  wife  of  Sinnatus,  afltrwards 
Priestess  in  the  Temple  of  Artemis. 


Nobleman. 
Messenger. 


A  maiden  slowly  moving  on  to  music 
Among  her  maidens  to  this  Temple  — 

O  Gods! 
She  is  my  fate  —  else  wherefore  has  my 

fate 
Brought  me  agaiu   to  her  own  city  1  — 

married 
Since  —  married  Sinnatus,  the  Tetrarch 

here  — 
But  if    he   be    conspirator,    Rome  will 

chain, 
Or  slay  him.     I  may  trust  to  gain  hei 

then 
When  I  shall  have  my  tetrarchy  restored 
By  Rome,  our  mistress,  grateful  that  I 

show'd  her 
The  weakness  and  the  dissonance  of  our 

clans, 
And  how  to  crush  them  easily.    Wretched 

race! 
And  once  I  wish'd  to  scourge  them  to  the 

bones. 
Rut  m  this  narrow  breathing-time  of  life 
Is  vengeance  for  its  own  sake  worth  the 

while, 


640 


THE  CUP. 


If  once  our  snds  are  gain'd  ?  and  now 

this  cup  — 
I  never  felt  such  passion  for  a  woman. 
[Brings   out    a   cup   and   scroll  from 
under  his  cloak. 
What  have  I  written  to  her  1 

[Reading  the  scroll, 

''  To  the  admired  Gamma,  wife  of  Siu- 
natus,  tlie  Tetrarch,  one  who  years  aiio, 
himself  an  ndorer  of  our  great  goddess, 
Artemis,  belield  you  afar  off  worshipping 
in  her  Temple,  and  loved  you  for  it,  sends 
you  this  cup  rescued  from  the  burning  of 
one  of  her  shrines  in  a  city  thro'  which  he 
past  with  the  Roman  army  :  it  is  the  cup 
we  use  in  our  marriages.  Receive  it  from 
one  who  cannot  at  present  write  himself 
other  than 

"A  Galatian  serving  by  force  in 
THE  Roman  Legion." 

[Turns  and  looks  up  to  Boy. 

Boy,  dost  thou  know  the  house  of  Sinna- 
tus? 

boy. 

These  grapes  are  for  the  house  of  Siu- 

natus — 
Close  to  ths  Temple. 

SYNORIX. 

Yonder  ? 


Yea. 

SYNORIX  (aside). 

That  I 
With  all  my  range  of  women  should  yet 

shun 
To  meet  her  face  to  face  at  once  !   My  boy, 
[Boij  comes  down  rocks  to  him. 
Take   thou   tills  letter  and  this   cup  to 

Cannna, 
The  wife  of  Sinnatus. 


Going  or  gone  to-day 
To  hunt  with  Sinnatus. 


SYNORIX. 

That  matters  not. 
Take  thou  this  cup  and  leave  it  at  her 
doors. 
[Gives  the  cup  and  scroll  to  the  Boy, 


BOY. 

I  will,  my  lord. 

[Takes  his  basket  of  grapes  and  exit 

Enter  Antonius. 

ANTONIUS  {meeting  the  Boy  as  he  goes  out). 

Why,  whither  runs  the  boy  ? 
Is  that  the  cup  you   rescued  from  the 
fire  i 

SYNORIX. 

I  send  it  to  the  wife  of  Sinnatus, 

One  hidf  besotted  in  religious  rites. 

You  come  here  with  your  soldiers  to  en- 
force 

The  long-withholden  tribute  :  you  sus- 
pect 

Tins  Sinnatus  of  playing  patriotism, 

Which  in  your  sense  is  treason.  You 
have  yet 

No  proof  against  him :  now  this  pious 
cup 

Is  passport  to  their  house,  and  open  arms 

To  him  who  gave  it  ;  aud  once  there  I 
warrant 

I  worm  thro'  all  their  windings. 

antonius. 

If  you  prosper. 
Our  Senate,  wearied  of  their  tetrarchies. 
Their    (puirrels    with    themselves,   their 

spites  at  Rome, 
Is  like  enough  to  cancel  them,  and  throne 
One  king  above  them  all,  who  shall  be 

true 
To  the  Roman  :  and  from  what  I  heard 

in  Rome, 
This  tributary  crown  may  fall  to  you. 

SYNORIX. 

The  king,  the  crown !  their  talk  in  Rome? 
is  it  so  ■? 

f ANION! us  nods. 
Well  —  I  shall  serve  Galatia  taking  it. 
And   save   her   from    herself,  and  be  to 

Rome 
More  faithful  than  a  Roman. 

[  Turns  and  sees  Gamma  coming. 
Stand  aside, 
Stana  aside ;  here  she  comes  \ 

[  Watching  Gamma  as  she  enters  with 
her  Maid 

Gamma  [to  Maid). 
Where  is  he,  girl  ? 


THE  CUP, 


641 


MAID. 

You  know  the  waterfall 
That  in  the  summer  keeps  the  mouutain 

side, 
But  after  rain  o'erleaps  a  jutting  rock 
And  shoots  three  hundred  teet. 

CAMMA. 

The  stag  is  there  ? 

MAID. 

Seen  in  the  thicket  at  the  bottom  there 
But  yester-even. 

CAMMA. 

Good,  then,  we  will  climb 
The  mountain   opposite  and   watch  the 
chase. 
yTliey  descend  the  rocks  and  exeunt. 

SYNOKix  {watching  her). 

(Aside.)    The  bust  of  Juno  and  the  brows 

and  eyes 
Of  Venus;  face  and  form  uumatchable  ! 

ANTONIUS. 

Why  do  you  look  at  her  so  lingeriugly  ? 

STXORIX. 

To  see  if  years  have  changed  her. 

ANTOMUS  (sarcastically). 

Love  her,  do  you  ? 

STNORIX. 

I  envied  Sinnatus  when  he  married  her. 

ANTONIUS. 

Ske  knows  it  ?     Ha  ! 

SYNORIX. 

She  —  no,  nor  ev'u  iny  face. 

ANTONIDS. 

Nor  Sinnatus  either  ■? 

SYNORIX. 

No,  nor  Sinnatus. 

ANTONIUS. 

Hot-blooded  1     I  have  heard  them  sa/  ia 
Rome, 


That  your  own    people  cast  you   from 

their  bounds, 
For  some  unprincely  violence  to  a  woman, 
As  Rome  did  Tarquin. 


Well,  if  this  were  so, 
I  here  return  like  Tarquin  —  for  a  crown 

ANTONIUS. 

And   may  be  foil'd   like  Tarquin,  if  yon 

follow 
Not    the  dry   light  of   Home's  stiaight- 

goius;-  policy. 
But  the  fool-fire  of  love  or  lust,  which 

well 
May  make  you  lose  yourself,  may  even 

drown  you 
In  the  good  regard  of  Rome. 


Tut  —  fear  me  not ; 
I  ever  had  my  victories  among  women. 
1  am  most  true  to  Rome. 

ANTONIUS  {aside). 

I  hate  the  man ! 
What  filthy  tools  our  Senate  works  with  I 

Still 
I  must  obey   them.    {Aloud).   Fare  you 

well.  \^Going. 


Farewell  I 

ANTONIUS    {stopping). 

A  moment !     If  you  track  this  Sinnatus 
In  any  treason,  I  give  you  here  an  order 
[Produces  a  paper. 
To   seize    upon   him.      Let   me   sign   it. 

{Signs  it.)    There 
"  Antonius  leader  of  the  Roman  Legion." 
[Hands  the  paper  to  Svnokix.     Goes 
up  pathway  and  exit 


Woman  again  !  —  but  I  am  wiser  now. 

No  rushing  on  the  game  —  the  net,  -^ 

the  net. 

[Shouts   of   "Sinnatus!     Sinnatus!" 

Then  horn 

{Looking  off"  stage  '      He   comes,  a  rough, 

bluff,  simple-looking  fellow. 
If  we  may  judge  the  kernel  by  the  husk, 
Not  one  to  keep  a  woman's  fealty  when 


642 


THE   CUP. 


Assailed  by  Craft  and  Love.    I  '11  join 

with  him  : 
I  may  reap  something  from  him  —  come 

upon  her 
Again,  perha])S,  to-day  —  her.     Who  are 

with  him  ? 
I  see  no  face  that  knows  me.     Shall  I 

risk  it  ? 
I  am  a  Roman  now,  they  dare  not  touch 

me. 
1  will. 

Enter  Sinnatus,  Huntsmen  and  hounds. 

Fair  Sir,  a  hajjpy  day  to  you  ! 
You  reck  but  little  of  the  Roman  here. 
While  you  can  take  your  pastime  in  the 

woods. 

SINNATUS. 

Ay,  ay,  why   not  ?      What   would   you 
with  me,  man  ? 

SVNORIX. 

I  am  a  life-long  lover  of  the  chase, 

And  tho'  a  stranger  fain  would  be  aliow'd 

To  join  the  hunt. 

SINNATUS. 

Your  name  ? 

SYNORIX. 

Strato,  my  name. 

SINNATUS.  I 

No  Boman  name  ? 

SYNORIX. 

A  Greek,  my  lord ;  you  know 
That  we  Galatiaus  are  both  Greek  and 
Gaul. 

[/SAo«is  and  horns  in  the  distance. 

SINNATUS. 

'dillo,  the  stag!    (7"')  Synorix.)  What, 
you  are  all  unfuruish'd  ? 

Give  him  a  bow  and  arrows  —  follow  — 
follow 

[Exit,  followed  by  Huntsmen. 

SYNORIX. 

Slowly  but  surely  —  till  I  see  my  way. 
It  is  the  one  step  in  the  dark  beyond 
Our  expectation,  that  amazes  us. 

[Distant  shouts  and  horns. 
Hillo!    Hillo! 

[Exit  Synorix.     Shouts  and  horns. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  ROOM  IN  THE  TE- 
TRARCH'S  HOUSE. 

Frescoed  figures  on  the  walls.  Evening 
Moonlight  outside.  A  couch  with  cush- 
ions on  it.  A  small  table  with  Jlagon  of 
icine,  cups,  plate  of  grapes,  etc.,  also  the 
cup  of  Scene  I.  A  chair  with  drapery 
on  it. 

Camma  enters,  and  opens  curtains  of  win' 

dow. 

camma. 

No  Sinnatus  yet  —  and  there  the  rising 

moon. 
[Takes  up  a  cithern  and  sits  on  couch. 
Plays  and  sings. 
"  Moon  on  the  field  and  the  foam, 

Moon  on  the  waste  and  the  wold, 
Moon  bring  him  home,  bring  him  home. 

Safe  from  the  dark  and  the  cold. 
Home,  sweet  moon,  bring  him  home. 
Home  with  the  flock  to  the  fold  — 

Safe  from  the  wolf  " 

(Listening.)     Is  he  coming?    I  thought 

I  heard 
A  footstep.     No  not  yet.     They  say  that 

Rome 
Sprang  from  a   wolf.     I   fear  my  dear 

lord  mixt 
With  some  conspiracy  against  the  wolf. 
This  mountain  shepherd  never  dream'd 

of  Rome. 
(Sings.)    "  Safe   from    the   wolf  to    the 

fold  " 

And  that  great  break  of  precipice  that 

runs 
Thro'  all  the  wood,  where  twenty  years 

ago 
Huntsman,  and  hound,  and  deer  were  all 

neck-broken ! 
Nay,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  SmNATVS  followed  bi/  Synorix 
SINNATUS    (angrily). 

I  tell  thee,  my  gooc^  fellovv 
My  arrow  struck  the  stag. 

SYNORIS;. 

But  was  it  so? 
Nay,  you  were  further  off:  besides  the 

wind 
Went  with  my  arrow. 

SINNATUS. 

I  am  sure  I  struck  him, 


THE  CUP. 


643 


SYNORIX. 

And  I  am  jnst  as  snre,  my  lord,  /  struck 

him. 
(Aside.)  And  I  mav    strike  your  game 

when  you  are  gone. 

CAMMA. 

Come,  come,  we  will  not  quarrel  about 

the  stag. 
I  have  had  a  weary  day  in  watching  you. 
Yours  must  have  been   a  wearier.     Sit 

and  eat, 
And  take   a  hunter's  vengeance  on  the 

meats. 

SINNATUS. 

No,  no  —  we  have  eaten  —  we  are  heated. 
Wine.' 

CAMJIA. 

Who  is  our  guest  1 

SINNATUS. 

Strato  he  calls  himself. 

(CATAMAoffers  wine  to  Syxorix,  tchile 
SiNXATUS  helps  himself. 

SINNATOS. 

I  pledge  you,  Strato.  [Dtinks. 

SYN'ORIX. 

And  I  yon,  my  lord.     \Drinks. 

81NNATCS  [seeing  ihe  cup  sent  to  camma). 

What 's  here  ? 

camma. 

A  strange  srift  sent  to  me  to-day. 
A  sacred  cup  saved  from  a  bh^zing  shrine 
Of  our  great  Goddess,  in  some  city  where 
Antonius  past.  I  had  believed  that  Rome 
Made  war  upon  the  peoples,  not  the  Gods. 

SYXORIX. 

Most  like  the  city  rose  against  Antonius, 
Whereon    he    fired    it,   and    the   .sacred 

shrine 
By  chance  was  burnt  along  with  it. 


SINNATUS. 


Had  you  then 


No  message  with  the  cup  1 

CAMMA. 

Why,  yes,  see  here.    lGive$  him  the  scroll. 


SINNATUS  (reads). 

"  To  the  admired  Camma,  —  beheld  you 
afar  off  —  loved  you  —  sends  you  this  cup 
—  the  cup  we  use  in  our  marriages  —  can- 
not at  present  write  himself  other  than 

"A  Galatian  serving  by   force   iir 
THE  Roman  Legion." 

Serving  by  force  !    Were  tliere  no  bough 

to  iiang  on, 
Rivers  to  drown  in  ?  Serve  by  force  ?  No 

force 
Could  make  me  serve  by  force. 

8YNORIX. 

How  then,  my  lord  ? 
The   Roman  is   encampt   without  }our 

city  — 
The  force  of  Rome  a  thousand-fold  our 

own. 
Must  all  Galatia  liang  or  drown  herself  ? 
And  you  a  Prince  and  Tetrarch  in  this 

province 


SINNATUS. 


Province ! 


SYNORIX. 

Well,  well,  they  call  it  so  in  Rome. 

SiNNATUS  (angrily). 
Province ! 

SYNOmX. 

A  noble  anger  !  but  Antonius 

To-morrow  will  demand  your  tribute  — 
you, 

Can  you  make  war  ?  Have  you  alli- 
ances ■? 

Bithvnia,  Pontus,  Paphlagonia  ? 

We  have  had  our  leagues  of  old  with 
Eastern  kings. 

There  is  my  hand  —  if  such  a  league 
there  be. 

What  will  you  do  ? 

SINNATUS. 

Not  .set  myself  abroach 
And  run  my  mind  out  to  a  random  guest 
Whojoin'd  me  in  the  hunt.    You  saw  my 

hounds 
True  to   the   scent ;  and   we   have    two- 

legg'd  dogs 
Among  us  who  can  smell  a  true  occa^ 

sion. 
And  when  to  bark  and  bow. 


644 


THE  CUP. 


My  good  Lord  Sinnatus, 
I  once  was  at  the  hunting  of  a  lion. 
Roused  hy  the  clamor  of   the  chase  he 

woke, 
Carae   to   the  front  of   the  wood  —  his 

monarch  mane 
Bristled  about  his  quick  ears — he  stood 

there 
Staring   upon   the    hunter.     A   score  of 

dogs 
Gnaw'd  at  his  ankles :  at  the  last  he  felt 
The  trouble  of  his   feet,  put   forth  one 

paw, 
Slew  four,  and   knew  it  not,  and  so  re- 

main'd 
Staring  upon  the  hunter  :  and  this  Rome 
Will  crush  you  if  you  wrestle  with  her ; 

then 
Save  for  some  slight  report  in  her  own 

Senate 
Scarce  know  what  she  has  done. 

(Aside.)   Would  I  could  move  him, 
Provoke    him    any    way !     (Aloud.)    The 

Lady  Camnia. 
Wise  I  am  sure  as  she  is  beautiful. 
Will  close  with  me  that  to  submit  at  once 
Is  better  than  a  wholly  hopeless  war. 
Our  gallant  citizens  murder'd  all  in  vain, 
Son,  hu.sbaud,  brother  gash'd  lo  death  in 

vain, 
And  the  small  state  more  cruelly  trampled 

on 
Than  had  she  never  moved. 


Sir.  I  had  once 
A  boy  who   died   a  babe ;  but   were  he 

living 
And  grown  to  man  and  Sinnatus  will'd 

it,  I 
Would  set  iiini  in  the  front  rank  of  the 

fight 
With  scaice   a   pang.    (Rises.)  Sir,  if  a 

state  submit 
At  once,  she  may  be  blotted  out  at  once 
And  swallow'd  in  the  conqueror's  chron- 
icle. 
Whereas  in  wais  of  freedom  and  defence 
The  sjlory  and  grief  of  battle  won  or  lost 
Solders  a  race  together  —  yea  —  tho'  they 

fail. 
The  names  of  those  who  fought  and  fell 

are  like 
A  bank'd-up  fire  that  flashes  out  again 
From  century  to  century,  and  at  last 


May  lead  them  on  to  victory  —  T  hope 

so  — 
Like  phantoms  of  the  Gods. 

SINNATUS. 

Well  spoken,  wife. 

SYNORix  (bowing). 
Madam,  so  well  I  yield. 

SINNATUS. 

I  should  not  wonder 
If  Synorix,  who  has  dwelt  three  years  in 

Rome 
And  wrought  his  worst  against  his  native 

land. 
Returns  with  this  Antonius. 

STNOUIX. 

Whnt  is  Synorix  1 

SINNATUS. 

Galatian,  and  not  know?     This  Synorix 
Was  Tetrarch  here,  and  tyrant  also  — 

did 
Dishonor  to  our  wives. 


Perhaps  you  judge  him 
With  feeble  charity  :  being  as  you  tell  me 
Tetrarch,  there  might  be  willing  wivea 

enough 
To  feel  dishonor,  honor. 


Do  not  say  so. 
I  know  of  no  such  wives  in  all  Galatia. 
There   may  be   courtesans   for   aught  I 

know 
Whose  life  is  one  dishonor. 

Enter  Attendant. 

ATTENDANT  (aside). 

My  lord,  the  men  1 

SINNATUS    (aside). 
Our  anti-Roman  faction  ? 

ATTENDANT  (aside). 

Ay,  my  lord. 

SYNORIX  (overhearing). 

(Aside.)     I    have    enough  —  their   antl- 
Roman  faction. 


THE  CUP. 


645 


SINNATDS    (aloud). 

Borne  friends  of  miue  would  speak  with 
me  without. 

You,  Strato,  make  good  cheer  till  I  re- 
turn. [Exit. 

SYNORIX. 

I  have  much  to  ;-ay,  no  time  to  say  it  in. 
First,  lady,  know  myself  am  that  Gala- 

liau 
Who  sent  the  cup. 

GAMMA. 

I  thank  you  from  my  heart. 

8YNOR1X. 

Then  that   I  serve  with  Rome  to  serve 

Gahitia. 
That  is  my  secret  :  keep  it,  or  you  sell 

me 
To  torment  and  to  death. 

[Cominfj  closer. 

For  your  ear  only  — 

I  love  you  —  for  your  love  to  the  great 

Goddess. 
The  Romans  sent    me  here    a  spy  upon 

you, 
To  draw  you  and  your  husband  to  your 

doom. 
I  'd  sooner  die  than  do  it. 
[Takes  out  paper  giren  him  by  Anloniu^. 
This  paper  sii.rn'd 
Antonius  —  will  you    take    it,  read    ii  ! 
there  ! 

C.XM.MA. 

(Beads.)  "  You  are  to  seize  oti  Sinnatus, 


{Snatches  paper.)  No  more. 
What  follows   is  for  no  wife's  eyes.     O 

Camma, 
Rome  has  a  glimpse  of  this  conspiracy  ; 
Rome  never  yet  hath  spar'd  conspirator. 
Horrible !     Haying,    scourging,    crucify- 


i  am  tender  enough.     Why  do  you  prac- 
tise on  me  ? 


SYNORIX. 

Why  should  I  practise  on  you  ?  How  you 

wrong  nie  ! 
I  am  sure  of  being  every  way  malign 'd 
And  if  you  should  betray  me  to  your  hus- 
band   


CAMMA. 

Will  you  betray  him  by  this  order  ? 

STNORTX. 

See, 
I  tear  it  all  to  pieces,  never  dream'd 
Of  acting  on  it.  [Tears  the  paper. 

OAMMA. 

I  owe  you  thanks  for  ever 

SYNORIX. 

Hath    Sinnatus  never  told   vou  of   this 
plot  ? 

CAMMA. 

What  plot  ? 

SYNORIX. 

A  child's  sand-castle  on  the  beach 
For  the  next  wave  —  all  seen,  —  all  cal- 
culated, 
All    known    by  Rome.     No    chance    for 
Sinnatus. 


Why,  said  you  not  as  much  to  my  brave 
Sinnatus  ? 


Biave — ay  —  too   brave,  too  over-confi- 
dent, 
Too  like  to  ruin  himself,  and  you,  and 

me ! 
Who  else,  with  this  lilack  thunderbolt  of 

Rome 
Above  him,  would  have  chased  the  stag 

to-day 
In  the  full  face  of  all  the  Roman  camp  ? 
A  miracle  that  they  let  hini  home  again, 
Not  caught,  maini'd,  blinded  him. 

[Camma  shudders. 

(Aside.)  I  have  made  her  tremble. 
(Aloud.)  I   know  they  mean    to  torture 

him  to  death. 
I  dare  not  tell  him  how  I  came  to  know 

it  ; 
I  durst  not  trust  him  with  —  iny  serving 

Rome 
To  serve  Galatia :    you   heard    him    on 

the  letter. 
Net  say  as  much  \  I  all  but  said  as  much. 
I  am  sure  I  toLl  him  that  his  plot  was 

folly. 
I  say  it  to  you  — you  are  wbev  —  Rome 

knows  all, 
But  you  know  not  the  savagery  of  Rome 


646 


THE  CUP. 


CAMMA. 

O— have  you  power  with  Rome?  use  it 
for  him ! 


Alaa  !    I  have  no  such  power  with  Rome. 

All  that 
Lies  with  Antonius. 

[As   if  struck  by  a   sudden  thought. 

Comes  over  to  her. 

He  will  pass  to-morrow 

In   the   gray  dawn   before   the  Temple 

doors. 
You  have  beauty, —  O  great  beauty, — 

and  Antonius, 
So  gracious  toward  women,  never  yet 
Flung  back  a  woman's  prayer.     Plead  to 

him, 
I  am  sure  you  will  prevail. 


My  husband. 


CAMMA. 

Still  —  I  should  tell 


Will  he  let  you  plead  for  him 
To  a  Roman  ? 

CAMMA. 

I  fear  not. 

STNORIX. 

Then  do  not  tell  him. 
Or  tell  him,  if  you  will,  when  you  return. 
When  you  have  charm'd  our  general  into 

mercy, 
And  all  is  safe  again.     O  denrest  lady, 
{Murmurs  of^-  Synori.x  !  Synorix  !  " 
heard    outside. 
Think,  —  torture,  —  death, —  and  come. 


I  will,  I  will. 
And  I  will  not  betray  yon. 

SYNORIX  (aside). 
{As  SiNNATUs  enters.)  Stand  apart. 
Enter  Sinnatus  and  Attendant. 

SINNATDS. 

Thou  art  that  Synorix  !  One  whom  thou 

hast  wrong'd 
Without  there,  knew  thee  with  Antonius. 
They  howl  for  thee,  to  rend   thee   head 

from  limb. 


I  am  much  malign 'd.     I  thought  to  serve 
Galatia. 

SINNATUS. 

Serve  thyself  first,  villain !     They  shall 

not  harm 
My   guest    within    my   house.      There'. 

(points  to  door)  there  !  this  door 
Opens  upon  the  forest; !  Out,  begone  ! 
Henceforth  I  am  thy  mortal  enemy. 

SYNORIX. 

However  I  thank  thee  (draivs  his  sword) ; 
thou  hast  saved  my  life.         [Exit. 

SINNATUS. 

(To   Attendant.)   Return    and   tell    them 
Synorix  is  not  here. 

[Exit  Attendant. 
What  did  that  villain  Synorix  say  to  you  ? 

CAMjMA. 

Is  he  — that  —  Synorix  ? 

SINNATUS. 

Wherefore  should  you  doubt  it  ? 
One  of  the  men  there  knew  him. 

CAMMA. 

Only  one. 
And  he  perhaps  mistaken  in  the  face. 

SINNATUS. 

Come,  come,  could  he  deny  it  ?     What 
did  he  say  ? 

CAMMA. 

What  should  he  say  ? 

SINNATUS. 

What  should  he  say,  my  wife  ! 
He  should  say  this,  thnt  being  Tetrarch 

once 
His  own  true  people  cast  him  from  their 

doors 
Like  a  base  coin. 

CAMMA. 

Not  kindly  to  them  ? 

SINNATUS. 

Kindly? 
O   the    most   kindly    Prince    in   all   the 

world  ! 
Would  clap  his  honest  citizens  on  the  back, 
Bandy  their  own  rude  jests  with  them,  be 

curious 


THE  CUP. 


647 


About  the  welfare  of  their  babes,  tlieir 
wives, 

0  ay  —  their  wives —  their  wives.   What 

siiould  he  say  • 
He  should  say  nothing  to  my  wife  if  I 
Were    by  tu  throttle   him  !     He  feteeji'd 

himself 
lu  all  the  lust  of  Rome.     How  should  you 

jiuess 
What  manner  of  beast  it  is? 

CA.MMA. 

Yet  he  seem'd  kindly, 
And  said  he  loathed   the  cruelties  that 

Home 
Wrought  on  her  vassals. 

81NNATUS. 

Did  he,  honest  man  ? 

CAMMA. 

And  you,  that  seldom  brook  the  stranger 
here, 

Have  let  him  hunt  the  stag  with  you  to- 
day. 

SINNATUS. 

1  warrant  you  now,  he  said  he  struck  the 

stag. 

CAMMA. 

Why  no,  he  never  touch'd  upon  the  stag. 

SINNATUS. 

Why  sc  I  said,  my  arrow.    Well,  to  sleep. 
[Goes  to  close  door. 


Nay,  close  not  yet  the  door  upon  a  night 
That  looks  half  day. 

SINNATUS. 

True  ;  and  my  friends  may  spy  him 
And  slay  him  as  he  runs. 


He  is  gone  already. 

Oh  look,  —  you  grove  upon  the  moun- 
tain, —  white 

In  the  sweet  moon  as  with  a  lovelier 
snow  ! 

But  what  a  blotch  of  blackness  under- 
neath ! 

Sinnatus,  you  remember  —  yea  you 
must. 

That  there  three  years  ago  —  tne  vast 
vine-bowers 

lian  to  the  summit  of  the  trees,  and  dropt 


Their  streamers  earthward,  which  a  breeze 

of  May 
Took  ever  and  anon,  and  open'd  out 
The   purple   zone   of   bill    and   heaven; 

rhere 
You  told  your  love;  and  like   the  sway- 
ing vines  — 
Yea,  —  with  our  eyes,  —  our  hearts,  our 

prophet  hopes 
Let  in  the  htippy  distance,  and  that  all 
But    cloudless    heaven  which    we   have 

found  together 
In  our  three  married  years !     You  kiss'd 

me  tiiere 
For  the  first   time.     Sinnatus,   kisa   me 

now. 

SINNATUS. 

First  kiss.     (Kisses  her.)      There  then. 

You  talk  almost  as  if  it 
Might  be  the  last. 

CAMMA. 

Will  you  not  eat  a  little  I 

SINNAT08. 

No,  no,  we  found  a  goat-herd's  hut  and 

.sliared 
His  fruits  and    milk.     Liar !     You   will 

lielicve 
Now  that  he  never  struck  the  stag  —  a 

brave  one 
Wiiich  you  shall  see  to-morrow. 


I  rise  to-morrow 
In  the  gray  dawn,  and  take  this  holy  cup 
To  lodge  it  in  the  shrine  of  Artemis. 


Good! 


SINNATUS. 


If  I  be  not  back  in  half  an  hour. 
Come  after  me. 

SINNATUS. 

What !  is  there  danger  I 

CAMMA. 

Nay, 
None  that  I  know  :  't  is  but  a  step  from 

here 
To  the  Temple. 


All  my  brain  is  full  of  sleep. 
Wake  me  before  you  go,  I  '11  after  you  — 
After  nw  now  !  \_C Loses  door  and  exit. 


648 


THE   CUP. 


CAMMA   {draioing  curtains). 

Your  shadow.     Syuorix  — 
His  face  was  not  inalignaut,  aud  he  said 
That  men  nialigu'd   him.     Shall  I  go  ■? 

Shiill  I  go  1 
Death,  torture  — 
"  He  uever   yet  flung   back   a  woman's 

prayer  "  — 
I  go,  but  I  will  liave  my  dagger  with  me. 

\Exit. 


SCENE  HI.  —  SAME  AS   SCENE  I. 
DAWN. 

Music  and  sinr/ing  in  the  Temple. 

Enter     Synorix     ivatclifnlli/,    after    him 
PuBLius  and  Soldiers. 


Publius ! 


Here ! 


I  told  you  1 


SYNORIX. 

Do  you  remember  what 


When  you  cry  "  Rome,  Rome,"  to  seize 
On   whomsoever    may    be   talking   with 

yon. 
Or  man,    or    womau,   as   traitors  unto 

Rome. 


Right.     Back  again.     How  many  of  you 
are  there  ? 

PUBLIUS. 

Some  half  a  score. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers  and  Publius. 

SYNORIX. 

I  have  my  guard  about  me. 
I  need  not  fear  the  crowd  that  hunted  me 
Across  the  woods,  last  night.     I  hardly 

gain'd 
The  camp  at  midnight.     Will   she  come 

to  me 
Now  that  she  knows  me  Synorix?  Not  if 

Sinnatus 
Has   told   her   all   the   truth  about    me. 

Well, 
I  cannot  help  the  mould  that  I  was  cast 

in. 
I  fling  all  that  upon  my  fate,  my  star, 


I  know  that  I  am  genial,  I  would  be 
Happy,  and  make  all  others  happy  so 
They  did  not  thwart  me.     Nay,  site  will 

not  come. 
Yet  if  she  be  a  true  and  loving  wife 
She  mav,  perchance,  to  save  this  husband. 

^y-      .     . 

See,  see,  my  white  bird  stepping  towarti 

the  snare. 
Why  now  I  count  it  all  but  miracle, 
That   this   brave   heart  of   mine  should 

shake  me  so, 
As  helplessly  as  some  unbearded  boy's 
When   first   he   meets  his   maiden  in  % 

bower. 

Enter  Gamma   {ivith  cup). 

SYNORIX. 

The  lark  first  takes  the  sunlight  on  his 

wing,_ 
But  you,  twin  sister  of  the  morning  star, 
Forelead  the  sun. 

camma. 

Where  is  Antonius  ? 

SYNORIX. 

Not  here  as  yet.     You  are  too  early  foj 
him. 


[She  crosses  towards  Temple. 


SYNORIX. 

Nay,  whither  go  you  now  ? 


To  lodge  this  cup 
Within  the  holy  shrine  of  Artemis, 
And  SO  return. 

SYNORIX. 

To  find  Antonius  here. 

[She  goes   into  the   Temple,  he  looks 

after  her. 

The  loveliest  life  that  ever  drew  the  light 

From  heaven   to  brood   upon   her,   and 

enrich 
Earth  with  her  shadow  !     I  trust  she  icill 

return. 
These    Romans    dare    not    violate    the 

Temple. 
No,  I  must  lure  my  game  into  the  camp. 
A  woman  Icoultl  live  and  die  for.  What? 
Die  for  a  woman,  what  new  faith  is  this? 
I  am  not  mnd,  not  sick,  not  old  enough 
To  doat  on  one  alone.    Yes.  mad  for  her, 
Camma   the   stately,  Camma  the  great- 

hei.rted, 


THE  CUP. 


649 


So  mad,  I  fear  some  strange   and  evil 

chance 
Coming  upon  me,  for  by  the  Gods  I  seem 
Strange  to  myself. 

Re-enter  Camma. 

CAMMA. 

Where  is  Anton ius  ? 

SYNORIX. 

Where  ?    As  I  said  before,  you  are  still 
too  early. 

CAMMA. 

Too  early  to  be  here  alone  wirfi  thee  ; 
For  whether  men  malign  thy  name,  or 

no, 
It  bears  an  evil  savor  among  women. 
Where  is  Antonius  ?  {Loud.) 

SYNORIX. 

Machun,  as  yon  know 
The  camp  is  half  a  league  without  tlie 

city; 
If  you  will  walk  with  me  we  needs  must 

meet 
Antonius  coming,  or  at  least  shall  find 

him 
There  in  the  camp. 

CAMMA. 

No,  not  one  step  with  thee. 
Where  is  Antonius  1  {Louder.) 

SYNORIX  {advancing  towards  her). 

Then  for  your  own  sake, 
Lady,  I  say  it  witli  all  gentleness, 
And   for  the  sake  of  Sinnatus  your  hus- 
band, 
I  must  compel  you. 

CABiMA  {draiving  her  dagger). 

Stay  !  —  too  near  is  death. 

SYNORIX  {disarming  her). 

Is  it  not  easy  to  disarm  a  woman  ? 

Etuer  SiNNATUS   {seizes  him  from  behind 
by  the  Lhroat). 

SYNORIX  (throttled  and  scarce  audible). 
Home !     Rome  ! 

SINNATUS. 

Adulterous  dog ! 

eryoTiTX    {stabbing    him   with    Gamma's 
dagger). 

What !  will  yon  have  it  ? 


[Camma  utters  a  cry  and  runs  to  Sin- 

NATC8, 

SINNATUS  {falls  backward). 
I  have  it  in  mv  heart  —  to  the  Temple  — 

fly-  ' 

For  my  sake  —  or  they   seize   on  thee, 

Kemeniber ! 
Away  —  farewell !  [Dies 

CAMMA  (runs  up  the  steps  into  the  I'emplc, 
looking  buck). 

Farewell ! 

SYNORIX   (seeing  her  escape). 

The  women  of  the  Temple  drag  her  in. 
Publius !     Publius !     No, 
Antonius  would  not  suffer  me  to  break 
Into  the  sanctuary.     She  hath  escaped. 

[Looking  down  at  Sinnatus. 
"  Adulterous  dog !  "   that  red-faced  rage 

at  me  ! 
Then  with  one  quick  short  stab  —  eternal 

'   peace. 
So  end  all  pas>-ions.     Then  what  use  in 

passions  ? 
To  warm  the  ^-old  bounds  of  our  dying  life 
And,  lest  we  freeze  in  mortal  apathy. 
Employ  us,  heat  iis,  quicken  us,  help  us, 

keep  us 
From  seeing  all  too  near  that  urn,  ihoBc 

ashes 
Which  all   must   be.      Well   used,   they 

serve  us  well. 
I  heard  a  saying  in  Egypt,  that  ambition 
Is  like  the  sea  wave,  which  the  more  you 

drink. 
The  more  you  thirst  —  yea  —  drink  too 

much,  as  men 
Have  done  on  rafts  of  wreck  —  it  drives 

you  mad. 
I  will   be   no   such    wreck,  am   no  such 

gamester 
As,  having  won   the   stake,    would  dare 

the  chance 
Of  double,   or  losing   all.     The  Roman 

Senate, 
For   I   have    always    play'd    into   thei: 

hands, 
Means  me  the  crown.     And  Cammi  for 

my  bride  — 
The  people  love  her  —  if  I  win  her  love, 
They  too  will  cleave  to  me,  as  one  with 

her. 
There  then  I  rest,  Rome's  tribntiiry  king. 
[Looking  down  on  Sinnatus. 
Why  did  I  strike  him  "?  —  having  proof 

enough 


650 


THE  CUP. 


Against  the  man,  I  surely  should  have  left 
That  stroke  to  Rome.     He  saved  my  life 

too.     Did  he  1 
It  seem'd  so.     I  have  play'd  the  suddeu 

fool. 
And  that  sets  her  against  me  —  for  the 

moment. 
Camma  —  well,  well,  I  never  found  the 

woman 
I  could  not  force  or  wheedle  to  my  will. 
She   will   be   glad  at   last   to   wear  my 

crown. 
And  I  will  make  Galatia  prosperous  too, 
And  we  will  chirp  among  our  vines,  and 

smile 
At  bygone   things  till   that    (pointing  to 

SiNNATUSJ  eternal  peace. 
Rome !     Rome  ! 

Enter  Publics  and  Soldiers. 

Twice  I  cried  Rome.     Why  came  ye  not 
before  1 

POBLIUS. 

Why  come  we  now?    Whom  shall  we 
seize  upon  1 

STNORix    {pointing   to  the  body  of  Sin- 

NATU9). 

The  body  of  that  dead  traitor  Sinnatus. 
Bear  him  away. 

Music  and  singing  in  Temple, 


ACT  II. 

SCENE.  —  INTERIOR  OF  THE  TEMPLE 
OF  ARTEMIS. 

Small  gold  gates  on  platform  in  front  of  the 
veil  before  the  colu^^sul  statue  of  the  God- 
dess, and  in  the  centre  of  the  Temple  a 
tripod  altar,  on  which  is  a  lighted  lamp. 
Lamps  (lighted)  suspended  between  each 
pillar.  Tripods,  vases,  garlands  of  flow- 
ers, etc.,  about  stage.  Altar  at  back  close 
to  Goddess,  with  two  cups.  Solemn  mu- 
sic.    Priestesses  decorating  the  Temple. 

Enter  a  Priestess. 

PRIESTESS. 

Phoebe,  that  man  from  wSynorix,  who  has 

been 
So  oft  to  see    the  Priestess,  waits  once 

more 
Before  the  Temple. 


PHCEBE. 

We  will  let  her  know. 
[Signs  to  one  of  the  Priestesses,  who  goes  out. 
Since  Carania  fled  from  Synorix  to  oui 

Temple, 
And    for    her   beauty,    stateliness,    and 

power, 
Was  chosen  Priestess  here,  have  you  not 

mark'd 
Her  eyes  were  ever  on  the  marble  floor? 
To-day  they  are  lixt  aud  bright — they 

look  straight  out. 
Hath  she  made  up  her  mind  to  many 

him  ? 

PRIESTESS. 

To  marry  him  who  stabb'd  her  Sinnatus. 
You  will  uot  easily  make  me  credit  that. 


Ask  her. 

Enter  Camjia  as  Priestess  (in  front  of  the 
curtains). 

PRIESTESS. 

You  will  uot  marry  Synorix  ? 

CAMMA. 

My  girl,  I  am  the  bride  of  Death,  anfl 

only 
Marry  the  dead. 

PRIESTESS. 

Not  Synorix,  then? 

CAMMA. 

My  girl, 
At  times  this  oracle  of  great  Artennis 
Has  CO  more  jtower  than  other  oracles 
To  speak  directly. 


Will  you  speak  to  him 
The  messenger  from  Synorix  who  waitt 
Before  the  Temple  ? 

CAMMA. 

Wh}'  not  ?     Let  him  enter, 
[Comes  forward  on  to  step  by  tripod. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 
MESSENGER  (hieels). 

Greeting    and     health     from     Synorix! 

JNIore  than  once 
You  have  refused  his  hand.     When  last 

I  saw  you, 


THE  CUP. 


651 


Vou  all  but  yielded.  He  entreats  you 
uow 

For  your  last  answer.  When  he  struck 
at  ISinnatus  — 

As  I  have  many  a  time  declared  to  you 

He  koew  not  at  the  moment  who  had 
fasten 'd 

About  his  throat  —  he  begs  you  to  forget 
it 

As  scarce  his  act :  —  a  random  stroke : 
all  else 

Was  love  for  you  :  he  prays  you  to  be- 
lieve him. 


I  pray  him   to  believe  —  that  I  believe 
him. 

MESSENGER. 

Why  that  is  well.     You  mean  to  marry 
him? 

CAMMA. 

I  mean  to  marry  him  —  if  that  be  well. 

MESSENGER. 

This  very  day  the  Romans  crown  him 

king 
For  all  liis  faithful  services  to  Rome. 
He  wills  you  then  this  day  to  marry  him, 
And  so  be  tlironed  together  in  tiie  sight 
Of  all  the  people,  that   the  world   may 

know 
You  twain  are  reconciled,  and  no  more 

feuds 
Disturb  our  peaceful  vassalage  to  Rome. 


To-day  ?      Too   sudden.      I   will   brood 

upon  it. 
When  do  they  crown  him  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Even  now. 

CAMMA. 

And  where  1 

MESSENGER. 

Here  by  your  temple. 

CAMMA. 

Come  once  more  to  me 
Before  the  crowning,  —  I  will  answer  you. 


[Exit  Messenyer. 


GresX  Artemis !    O  Camma,  can   it  be 
well. 


Or  good,  or  wise,  that  you  should  clasp  a 

hand 
Red  with  the  sacred  blood  of  Sinnatus  i 


Good  !  mine  own  dagger  driven  by  Syn 

orix  found 
All  good  in  t!\e  true  lieart  of  Sinnatus, 
And  queuch'd  it  there  for  ever.     Wise  ! 
Life  yields  to  death  and  wisdom  bows  to 

Fate, 
Is  wisest,  doing  so.     Did  not  this  man 
Speak  well  ?     We  cannot  fight  imperial 

Rome, 
But  he  and  I  are  both  Galatian-born, 
And  tributary  soveriigns,  he  and  I 
Might   teach   tiiis   Rome  —  from  knowl- 
edge of  our  people  — 
Where   to  lay  on  her  tribute  —  heavily 

here 
And  liglitly  there.     Might  I  not  live  for 

that, 
And   drown  all  poor  self-passion  in    the 

sense 
Of  public  good  ? 

PHCEBE. 

I  am  sure  you  will  not  marry  him. 

CAMMA. 

Arc  you  so  sure?     I  pray  you  wait  and 
see. 
\Sltouts   (from  the    distance),  "  Syno- 
rix  !     Syuorix  !  " 

CAMMA. 

Synorix,  Synorix  !  So  they  cried  Sinnatus 
Not  so  long  since  —  thev  sicken  me.    The 

One 
Who  shifts  his  policy  suffers  something, 

must 
Accuse     himself,    excuse    himself ;    the 

Many 
Will  feel  no  shame  to  give  themselves  the 

lie. 


Most    like    it   was    the   Roman    soldier 
shouted. 


Their  shield-borne  patriot  of  the  morning 

star 
Haug'd   at  mid-day,  their  traitor  of  the 

dawn 
The  clamor'd  darling  of  their  afternoon  ! 
And   that  same  head    they  would   have 

play'd  at  ball  with, 


652 


THE  CUP. 


And   kick'd    it    featureless  —  they   now 
would  crown. 

[Flourish  of  Iruinpets. 

Enter  a  Gulatian  Nobleman  wUh  crown  on 
a  cushion. 

NOBLE  (kneels). 

Greeting  and  health  from  Sjnorix.     He 

seuds  you 
Tills  diadem  of  the  first  Galatiau  Queen, 
That   you  may  feed  your  fancy  on  the 

glory  of  it, 
And  join  your  life  this  day  with  his,  and 

wear  it 
Beside  him  on  his  tlirone.    He  waits  your 

answer. 

CAMMA. 

Tell  him  there  is  one  shadoiv  among  the 

shadows. 
One  ghost  of  all  the  ghosts  —  as  yet  so 

new, 
So  strange  among  them  —  such  an  alien 

there, 
So  much  of  husband  in  it  still —  that  if 
The  shout  of  Synorix  and  Camma  sitting 
Upon  one  throne,  should  reach  it,  it  would 

rise  — 
He  !  .  .  .  He,  with  that  red  star  between 

the  ribs, 
And  my  knife  there  —  and  blast  the  king 

and  me. 
And  bhuich  the  crowd   with   horror.     I 

dare  not,  sir ! 
Throne  him  —  and  then  the  marriage  — 

ay  and  tell  iiim 
That  I  accept  the  diadem  of  Galatia  — 

[All  are  amazed. 
Yea,  that  ye  saw  me  crown  myself  withal. 
IPuts  on  the  crown. 
1  wait  him  his  crown'd  queen. 

NOBLE. 

So  will  I  tell  liim. 
[Exit. 
Music.    Two  Priestesses  go  up  the  steps  be- 
fore the  shrine,  draw  the  curtains  on  either 
side  (discoverinij  the  Goddess),  then  o)>en 
the  gates  and  remain  on  steps,  one  on  either 
side,  and  kneel.    A  Priestess  goes  off  and 
returns  with  a  veil  of  marriage,  then  as- 
sists Phasbe  to  veil  Camma.     At  the  same 
time  Priestesses  enter  ana  stand  on  either 
side  of  the  Temple.     Camma  and  all  the 
Pi-iestesses  kneel,  raise  their  hands  to  the 
Goddess,  and  bow  down. 
[Shouts,  "  Synorix  !  Synorix !  "    All 

rise. 


CAMMA. 

Fling   wide  the  doors,  and  let  the  new. 

made  children 
Of  our  imperial  motlier  see  the  show. 

[Sunlight  pours  through  the  doors. 
I  have  no  heart  to  do  it.     (To  Phoebe). 
Look  for  me  ! 

[Crouches.     Phcebe  looks  out. 

[Shouts  "  Synorix  !  Synorix  !  " 


He  climbs  the  throne.  Hot  blood,  am- 
bition, pride 

So  bloat  and  redden  his  face  —  0  would 
it  were 

His  third  last  apoplexy  !     O  bestial ! 

O  how  unlike  our  goodly  Sinnatus. 

CAMMA  (on  the  ground). 

You  wrong  him  surely ;  far  as  the  face 

goes 
A  goodlier-looking  man  than  Sinnatus. 

phcebe  (aside). 

How  dare  she  say  it  ?    I  could  hate   her 

for  it 
But  that  she  is  distracted.    [A  flourish  of 

trumpets. 

CAMMA. 

Is  he  crown'd  ? 


Ay,  there  they  crown  him. 

[Crowd  without  shout,  "  Synorix! 
Synorix ! " 

CAMMA  (rises). 

[A  Priestess  brings  a  box  of  spices  to 

Camma,   who  throws    them   on   ihe 

altar  flame. 

Rouse  the  dead  altar  flame,  fliug  in  the 

spices, 
Nard,  cinnamon,  amomum,  benzoin. 
Let  all  the  air  reel  into  a  mist  of  odor, 
As  in  the  midmost  heart  of  Paradise. 
Lay  down  the  Lydian  carpets  for  the  king. 
The  king  should  pace  ou  purple  to  his 

bride. 
And   music   there  to  greet  my  lord  the 

king.  [Music. 

(To  Phcebe.)     Do.st  thou  remember  when 

I  wedded  Sinnatus  1 
Ay,   thou    wast    there  —  whether   from 

maiden  fears 
Or  reverential  love  for  him  I  loved, 
Or  some  strange  second-sight,  the  mat 

riage-cup 


THE  CUP. 


663 


Wherefrom  we  make  libatiou  to  the  God- 

desi 
So  shook  within  my  huud,  that  the  red 

wine 
Rau  dowu   the   maible   aud  looked  like 

blood,  like  blood. 

PHCEBE. 

1  do  remember  your  first-marriage  fears. 

GAMMA. 

I  have  uo  feara  at  this  my  second  mar- 
riage. 

See  here  —  I  stretch  my  hand  out  —  hold 
it  there. 

How  steady  it  is  ! 

PHCEBE. 

Steady  enough  to  stab  him  ' 

CAM.MA. 

O  hush  !  O  peace !  This  violence  ill 
becomes 

The  silence  of  our  Temple.     Gentleness, 

Low  words  best  chime  witli  this  solem- 
nity. 

Enter  a  procession  o/  Priestesses  and  Chil- 
dren bearing  garlands  and  golden 
goblets,  and  strewing  flowers. 

Enter  Svnorix  (as  King,  with  gold  laurel- 
wreath  crown  and  /lurple  robes),  fol- 
lowed bij  Antoxius,  Publics, 
Noblemen,  Guards,  and  the  Popu- 
lace. 

CAMMA. 

Hail,  Iviog ! 


Hail,  Queen  ! 

The  wheel  of  Fate  has  roll'd  me  to  the  top. 

1  would  that  liap])iness  were  gold,  that  I 

Might  cast  my  largess  of  it  to  the 
crowd  ! 

1  would  that  every  man  made  feast  to- 
day 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  our  pines  and 
planes  ! 

For  ail  my  truer  life  begins  to-day. 

The  past  is  like  a  travelld  land  now 
sunk 

Below  the  horizon  —  like  a  barren  shore 

That  grew  salt  weeds,  but  now  all 
drown'd  in  love 

And  glittering  at  full  tide  —  the  boun- 
teous bays 

And  liavens  filling  with  a  blissful  sea. 

Nor  speak  I  now  too  mightily,  being 
Iving 


And  happy  !  happiest,  Lady,  in  my  power 
To  make  you  happy. 

GAMMA. 

Yes,  sir. 

SYNORIX. 

Our  Autonius, 
Our  faithful  friend  of  Rome,  tho'  Rome 

may  set 
A  free   foot   where   she   will,  yet  of  his 

courtesy 
Entreats  he  may  be  present  at  our  mar» 

riage. 

GAMMA. 

Let  him  come  —  a  legion  \vith  him,  if  he 

will. 
[To  Antosius.)   Welcome,  my  lord  An- 

touius,  to  our  Temple. 
(7o   Synorix.)    You   on   this   side  tlie 

altar.     (To  Antonius.)     You  on 

that. 
Call  first  upon  the  Goddess,  Synorix. 

\All  face   the    Goddess.     Priestesses, 

Children,    Pojtulace,    and    Guards 

kneel  —  the  others  remain  standing. 


O  Tiiou,  that  dost  inspire  the  germ  with 
life, 

The  child,  a  thread  within  the  house  of 
birth, 

And  give  him  limbs,  then  air,  aud  send 
him  forth 

The  glory  of  liis  fatlier  —  Thou  wliose 
breath 

Is  balmy  wind  to  robe  our  hills  with 
grass, 

And  kindleyall  our  vales  with  myrtle- 
blossom, 

And  roll  the  golden  oceans  of  our  grain. 

And  sway  tiie  long  grape-bimches  of  our 
vines. 

And  fill  all  hearts  with  fatness  and  the 
lust 

Of  plenty  —  make  me  happy  in  my  mar- 
riage ! 

CHOROS  (chanting). 

Artemis,  Artemis  !  hear  him,  Ionian  Ar- 
temis. 

GAMMA. 

O  thou  that  slayest  the  babe  within  the 

womb 
Or  in  the  being  born,  or  after  slayest  him 
As  boy  o\   man,  great  Goddess,   whose 

storm-voice 


654 


THE  CUP. 


Unsockets  the  strong  oak,  and  rears  his 

root 
Beyond  his  head,  and  strows  our  fruits, 

and  lays 
Our  golden  grain,  and  runs  to  sea  and 

makes  it 
Foam  over  all  the  fleeted  wealth  of  kings 
And  peoples,  hear. 
Whose   arrow   is   the    plague   —   whose 

quick  flash  splits 
The  mid-sea  mast,  and  rifts  the  tower  to 

the  rofk, 
And  hurls  the  victor's  column  down  with 

him 
That  crowns  it,  hear. 
Who  caiisest  tlie  safe  earth  to  shudder 

and  gape, 
And  gulf  and  flatten  in  her  closing  chasm 
Domed  cities,  hear. 
Whose  lava-torrents  blast  and  blacken  a 

province 
To  a  cinder,  hear. 
Whose  winter-cataracts  find  a  realm  and 

leave  it 
A  waste  of  rock  and  ruin,  hear.     I  call 

thee 
To  make   my   marriage   prosper  to  my 

wish  ! 


Artemis,  Artemis,  hear  her,  Ephesian 
Artemis ! 

GAMMA. 

Artemis,  Artemis,  hear  me,  Galatian  Ar- 
temis ! 

I  call  on  our  own  Goddess  in  our  own 
Temple. 


Artemis,  Artemis,  hear  her,  Galatian  Ar- 
temis ! 

[Thunder.    All  rise. 

SYNOEix  [aside). 

Thunder !  Ay,  ay,  the  storm  was  draw- 
ing hither 

Across  tiie  hills  when  I  was  being 
crown 'd. 

I  wonder  if  I  look  as  pale  as  she  ? 

CAMMA. 

Art  thou  —  still  bent  —  on  marrying  ? 


Surely  —  yet 
These   are   strange   words   to   speak   to 
Artemis. 


Words  are  not  always  what  they  seem, 

my  King. 
I  will  be  faithful  to  thee  till  thou  die. 

SYNOEIX. 

I  thank  thee,  Camma,  —  I  thank  thee. 

CAMMA  (turning  to  Antonius). 

Antonius, 
Much   graced    are   we   that  our  Queen 

Rome  in  you 
Deigns  to  look  in  upon  our  barbarisms. 
[I\irns,  goes   up  steps  to  altar  before 
the  Goddess.    Takes  a  cup  from,  off 
the  altar.     Holds  it  towards  Anto- 
nius. Antonius  goes  up  to  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  opposite  to  Synorix. 
You  see  this  cup,  my  lord. 

[  Gives  it  to  hint. 

antonius. 

Most  curious ! 
The  many-breasted  mother  Artemis 
Emboss'd  upon  it. 


It  is  old,  I  know  not 

How  many  hundred  years.     Give  it  me 
again. 

It  is  the  cup  belonging  our  own  Temple. 

[Puts  it  back  on  altar,  and  takes  up 

the  cup  of  Act  I.     Showing   it   to 

Antonius. 

Here  is  another  sacred  to  the  Goddess, 

The  gift  of  Synorix ;  and  the  Goddess, 
being 

For  this   most  grateful,  wills,  thro'   me 
her  Priestess, 

In  honor  of   his  gift  and  of  our   mar- 
riage, 

That  Synori.x  should  drink  from  his  own 
cup. 


I  thank  thee,  Camma,  —  I  thank  thee. 


For  —  my  lord  — ' 
It  is  our  ancient  custom  in  Galatia 
That  ere  two  souls  be  knit  for  life  and 

death, 
They  two  should  drink  together  from  one 

cup, 
In  symbol  of  their  married  unity, 
Making  libation  to  the  Goddess.     Bring 

me 


THE  CUP. 


656 


The  costly  wines  we  use  in  marriages. 

\rhey  bring  in  a  large  jar  of  wine. 
Camma  pours  wine  into  cup. 

f  To  Srsomx.)  See  here,  I  fill  it.  {To 
Antonius.)  Will  you  drink,  my 
lord? 

ANTONIUS. 

I  ?  Why  should  I  ?  I  am  not  to  be  mar- 
ried. 

CAMMA. 

But  that  might  bring  a  Roman  blessing 
on  us. 

ANTONIUS  {refusing  cup). 
Thy  pardon,  I'riestess  ! 


Thou  art  in  the  right. 

This  blessing  is  for  Synorix  :md  for  me. 

See  first  I  make  libation  to  the  Goddess, 

\Makes  libation. 

And  now  I  drink.     ^Drinks  and  Jills  the 

cup  again. 

Thy  turn,  Galatian  King. 

Drink  and  drink  deep  —  our  marriage 

will  be  fruitful. 
Drink   and    drink   deep,   and   thou    wilt 
make  me  happy. 
[Synorix  goes  up  to  her.     She  hands 
him  the  cup.     He  drinks. 

SYNORIX. 

There,  Camma  !    I  have  almost  draiu'd 

the  cup  — 
A  few  drops  left. 

CAMMA. 

Libation  to  the  Goddess. 

\He  throws  the  remaminq  drops  on  the 

altar  and  gives  Gamma  the  cup. 

CAMMA  {placing  the  cup  on  the  altar). 

Why  then  the  Goddess  hears. 

[Conies  down  and  forward  to  tripod. 

A^Toaivs  follows. 

Antonius, 
Where  wast  thou  on  that  morning  when 

I  came 
To  plead  to  thee  for  Sinnatus's  life, 
Beside  this  temple  half  a  year  ago  1 

ANTONIUS. 

I  never  heard  of  this  request  of  thine 


SYNORIX  {commg  forward  hastily  to 
foot  of  tripod  steps). 

I  sought  him  and  i  could  not  find  him. 

Pray  you. 
Go  on  with  the  marriage  rites. 


CAMMA. 


Antonius  — 


"  Camina  !  "  who  spake  ? 

ANT0NIU3. 

Not  I. 

PH(EBE. 

Nor  any  here. 

CAMMA. 

I  am  all  but  sure  that  some  one  spake. 

Antonius, 
If  you  had  found  him  plotting  against 

Rome, 
Would   you   have    tortured  Sinnatus  to 

death  ? 

ANTONIUS. 

No  thouiiht  was   mine   of  torture  or  o2 

death. 
But  had   I   found    him   plotting,  I    had 

counsell'd  him 
To  rest   from  vain  resistance.     Rome  is 

fated 
To  rule  the  world.     Then,  if  he  had  not 

listen'd, 
I  might  have  sent  him  prisoner  to  Rome. 

SYNORIX. 

Why  do  you  palter  with  the  ceremony  ? 
Go  on  with  the  marriage  rites. 


They  are  finish'd. 

STNORIX. 

How! 

CAMMA. 

Thou  hast  drunk  deep  enough  to  make 

me  happy. 
Dost  thou  not  feel  the  love  I  bear  to  thee 
Glow  thro'  thy  veins  ? 

SYNORIX. 

The  love  I  bear  to  thee 
Glows  thro'  my  veins  since  first  I  look'd 

on  thee. 
But  wherefore  slur  the  perfect  ceremony? 
The  sovereign  of  Galatia  weds  his  Queen. 
Let  ail  be  done  to  the  fullest  in  the  sight 


656 


THE  CUP. 


Of  all  the  Gods.     {Starts.)     This  pain  — 

what  is  it  ?  —  again  1 
I  had  a  touch  of  this  last  year  —  in  — 

Rome. 
Yes,  yes.  {To  Antomus.)  Yourarm  —  a 

moment  —  It  will  pass. 
I  reel  beneath  the  weight  of  utter  joy  — 
This  all  too  happy  day,  crown  — queen 

at  once. 

[Staggers. 

O   all   ye   Gods  —  Jupiter!  —  Jupiter! 

[Falls  backward. 

CAMMA. 

Dost  thou  cry  out  upon  tlie  Gods  of  Rome. 
Thou  art  Galatinn-born  ?     Our  Artemis 
Has  vanquish'd  their  l^iana. 

SYNORix  {on  the  ground). 

I  am  poison'd. 
She  —  close  the  Templ'e  doors.     Let  her 
not  fl}'. 

CAMMA  {leaning  on  Iripod). 

Have  I  not  drunk  of  the  same  cup  with 
thee? 


Ay,  by  the  Gods  of   Rome   and  all  the 

world. 
She   too  —  she   too —  the   bride!     the 

Queen  !  and  I  — 
Monstrous !     I  that  loved  her. 

CAMMA. 

I  loved  him. 

SYNORIX. 

0  murderous  mad-woman  !     I  pray  you 

lift  me 
And    make   me    walk   awhile.      I   have 

heard  these  poisons 
May  be  walk'd  down. 

[Antonius  and  Publius  raise  him  up. 

My  feet  are  tons  of  lead, 

They   will   break   in    the    earth  —  I   am 

sinking  —  hold  me  — 
Let  me  alone. 
[Theij  leave  him  ;  he  sinks  down  on  ground. 

Too  late  —  thought  my>elf  wise  — 
A   woman's    dupe.      Antonius,    tell   the 

Senate 

1  havt  been  most  true  to  Rome  —  would 

have  been  true 
To  Aer  — if— if— 

[Falls  as  if  dead. 

CAMMA  {coming  and  leaning  over  him). 
So  falls  the  throne  of  an  hour. 


SYNORIX  {half  rising). 
Throne?     is   it    thou?     the   Ftites    are 

throned,  not  we  — 
Not  guilty  of  ourselves  —  thy  doom  and 

mine  — 
Thou  —  coming    my  way  too  —  Gamma 

—  good-night.  [Dies. 

CAMMA    {upheld  hij  weeping  Priestesses). 
Thy  way  ?  poor  worm,  crawl  down  thine 

own  black  hole 
To  the   lowest    Hell.      Antonius,  is    he 

there  ? 
I  meant  thee  to  have  follow'd — better 

thus. 
Nay,  if   my    people   must   be   thralls   of 

Rome, 
He  is  gentle,  tho'  a  Roman- 
[■S/m^s  back  into  the  arms  of  the  Priestesses. 

ANTONIUS. 

Thou  art  one 
With   thine  own  people,  and  tho'  a  Ro- 

mau  I 
Forgive  thee,  Camraa. 

CAMMA  {raising  herself). 
"  Gamma  1 "  —  why  there  again 
I  am  most  sure  that  some  one  call'd.     O 

women, 
Ye  will  have  Roman  masters.    I  am  glad 
I   shall   not   see  it.     Did    not  some  old 

Greek 
Say  death  was  the  chief  good  ?     He  had 

my  fate  for  it, 
Poison'd.     {Sinks  back  again.)     Have  I 

the  crown  on  1     I  will  go 
To  meet  him,  crown'd  !  crown'd  victor  of 

my  will  — 
On  mv  last  voyage  —  but  the  wind  has 

'fail'd  — 
Growing  dark  too  —  but  light  enough  to 

row. 
Row   to  the   blessed   Isles !    the  blessed 

Isles !  — 
Sinnatus  ! 
Why  comes  he  not  to  meet  me  ?     It  is 

the  crown 
Offends   him  —  and   my  hands    are    toe 

sleepy 
To  lift  it  otf. 

[Phcebe  takes  the  croion  ojff. 

Who  touch 'd  me  then  1     I  thank  you. 

[Rises,  with  outspread  arms. 

There  —  league  on  league  of  ever-shining 

shore 
Beneath  an  ever-rising  sun  —  I  see  him  — 
"  Gamma,    Gamma  !  "    Sinnatus,  Sinn» 

tU3 1  lDie& 


THE   FALCON. 


667 


THE  FALCON. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 

The  Count  Federigo  degli  ALBERiaai. 
FiLlPPO,  Count'.i  foster-brother. 

The   liADY  GlOVANNA. 

Klisabetta,  the  Count''s  nurse. 


Scene.  —  An  Italian  Cottage.     Cas- 

tlk    and  mocntaixs  seex    through 

Window. 

Elisabetta  discovered  seated  on  stool  in 
window,  darning.  The  Count  icick  Fal- 
con on  his  hand  comes  down  through  the 
door  at  back.  A  withered  wreath  on  the 
wall. 

elisabetta. 

So,  my  lord,  the  Lady  Giovanna,  who 
hath  been  away  so  louir,  came  back  last 
night  with  her  sou  to  the  castle. 


Hear  that,  my  bird  !     Art  thou  not  jeal- 
ous of  her  1 

My  princess   of  the  cloud,  my  plumed 
purveyor, 

My  far-eyed  queen  of  the  winds  —  thou 
that  canst  soar 

Beyond  the  morning  lark,  and  howsoe'er 

Thy  quarry  wind  and  wheel,  swoop  down 
upon  him 

Eagle-like,  lightning-like  —  strike,  make 
his  feathers 

Glance  in  mid  heaven.        \Crossesto  chair 
I  would  thou  hadst  a  mate  ! 

Thy  breed  will  die  with  thee,  and  mine 
with  me : 

I  am  as  lone  and  loveless  as  thyself. 

[Sits  in  chair. 

Giovanna  here  !    Ay,   ruffle  thyself  —  be 
jealous  ! 

Thou  shnuld'st  be  jealous  of  her.     Tho' 
I  bred  thee 

The  fuU-train'd  marvel  of  all  falconry. 

And  love  thee  and  thou  me,  yet  if  Gio- 
vanna 

Be  here  again — -No,  no!  Buss  me,   my 
bird  ! 

The  statelv  widow  has  no  heart  for  me. 

Thou   art  the  last   friend   left   me  upou 
earth  — 

No,  no  again  to  that.         [Rises  and  turns. 
My  good  old  nurse, 

I  had  forgotten  thou  wast  sitting  there. 


ELISABETTA. 

Ay,  and  forgotten  thv  foster-brother  too, 


Bird-babble  for  my  falcon  !     Let  it  pass. 
What  art  thou  doing  there  ? 

ELISABETTA. 

Darning,  your  lordship. 
We  cannot  flaunt  it  in  new  feathers  now  : 
Nay,  if  we  irill  buy  diamoiul  necklaces 
To  please  our  lady,  we  must  darn,  my 

lord. 
This   old  thing  here   {points  to  necklace 

round  her  7>eck),  they  are  but  blue 

beads  —  my  Piero, 
God  rest  his  honest  soul,  he  bought  'em 

for  me. 
Ay,  but  he  knew  I  meant  to  marry  him. 
How  couldst  thou  do  it,  my  son  ?     How 

couldst  thou  do  it  ? 

COUNT. 

She  saw  it  at  a  dance,  upon  a  neck 
Less  lovely  than  her  own,  and  long'd  for 
it. 

ELISABETTA. 

She  told  thee  as  much  2 

COUNT. 

No,  no  —  a  friend  of  hers. 
elisa'betta. 

Shame  on  her  that  she  took  it  at  thy 
hands, 

She  rich  enough  to  havp  bought  it  for  her- 
self ! 

COUNT. 

She  would  have  robb'd  me  then  of  a  grea': 
pleasure. 

ELISABETTA. 

But  hatk  she  yet  return'd  thy  love  " 
COUNT. 

Not  yet  I 


668 


THE   FALCON. 


ELISABBTTA. 

She  should  return  thy  necklace  then. 

COUNT. 

Ay,  if 
She   knew  the  giver;  but  I   bound   the 

seller 
To  silence,  and  I  left  it  privily 
At  Florence,  in  her  palace. 

ELISABBTTA. 

And  sold  thine  own 
To  buy  it  for  her.     She  not  know  ?    She 

knows 
There  's  none  such  other 

COUNT. 

Madman  anywhere. 
Speak  freely,  tho'  to  call  a  madman  mad 
Will    hardly    help    to   make    him   sane 
again. 

Enter  Filippo. 


Ah,  the  women,  the  women  !  Ah,  Monna 
Giovanna,  you  here  again  !  you  that  have 
the  face  of  an  angel  and  the  heart  of  a 
—  that  's  too  positive  !  You  that  have 
a  score  of  lovers  and  have  not  a  heart  for 
any  of  them  —  that  's  positive-negative: 
you  that  have  not  the  head  of  a  toad,  and 
not  a  heart  like  the  jewel  in  it  —  that,  's 
too  negative;  you  that  have  a  cheek  like 
a  peach  and  a  heart  like  the  stone  in 
it  —  that 's  positive  again  —  that 's  bet- 
ter ! 

ELISABETTA. 

Sh  —  sh  —  Filippo  ! 

FILIPPO  (turns  half  round). 
Here  has  our  master  been  a  glorifying 
and  a-velveting  and  a-silking  himself,  and 
a-peacocking  and  a;spreadiug  to  catch 
her  eye  for  a  dozen  year,  till  he  has  n't 
an  eye  left  in  his  own  tail  to  flourish 
among  the  ]ieahens,  and  all  along  o'  you, 
Monna  Giovanna,  all  along  o'  you  ! 

ELISABETTA. 

Sh  —  sh  —  Filippo  !  Can't  you  hear 
that  you  are  saying  behind  his  back  what 
you  see  you  are  saying  afore  his  face  ? 

COUNT. 

Let  him  —  he  never   spares  me   to  my 
face ! 

FILIPPO. 

No,  my  lord,  I  never  spare  your  lordship 


to  your  lordship's  face,  nor  behind  your 
lordship's  back,  nor  to  right,  nor  to  left, 
nor  to  round  about  and  back  to  youv 
lordship's  face  again,  for  I  'm  honest, 
your  lordship. 

COUNT. 

Come,  come,  Filippo,  what  is  there  in  the 
larder  1 
[ELISABETTA  crosses  to  fireplace  and 
puts  on  wood. 

FILIPPO. 

Shelves  and  hooks,  shelves  and  hooks, 
and  wlien  I  see  the  shelves  I  am  like  to 
hang  myself  on  the  hooks. 

COUNT. 

No  bread  ? 

FILIPPO. 

Half  a  breakfast  for  a  rat  1 

COUNT. 

Milk? 

FILIPPO. 

Three  laps  for  a  cat ! 

COUNT. 

Cheese  ? 

FILIPPO. 

A  supper  for  twelve  mites. 

COUNT. 

Eggs  ? 


FILIPPO. 


One,  but  addled. 

COUNT. 

No  bird  1 

FILIPPO. 

Half  a  tit  and  a  hern's  bill. 

COUNT. 

Let  be   thy  jokes  and  thy  jerks,  man! 
Anything  or  nothing  1 


Well,  my  lord,  if  all-but-nothing  be 
anything,  and  one  plate  of  dried  prunes 
benll-hut-nothing,  then  there  is  anything 
in  your  lordship's  larder  at  your  lordship's 
service,  if  your  lordship  care  to  call  for  it 


Good    mother,   happy  was  the   prodigaj 

son, 
For  he  return 'd  to  the  rich  father ;  I 
But  add  my  poverty  to  thine.    And  all 


THE   FALCON. 


659 


Thro'  following  of  my  fancy.     Fray  thee 

make 
Thy  slender  meal  out  of  those  scraps  and 

shreds 
Filippo  spoke  of.     As  for  him  and  me, 
There  sprouts  a  salad  in  the  garden  still. 
(To  the   Falcon.)     Why  didst  thou  miss 

thy  quarry  ycster-eveu  .' 
To-day,  my  beauty,  thou  must  dash   us 

dowu 
Our    dinner    from     the    skies.       Away, 

Filippo  ! 

[Exit,  followed  by  Filippo. 

EUSABETTA. 

I  knew  it  would  come  to  this.  She  has 
beggared  him.  I  always  knew  it  would 
come  to  this  !  (  Goes  up  to  table  as  if  to 
resume  darninf),  and  looks  out  of  window.) 
Why,  as  I  live,  there  is  Monna  Giovauna 
coming  down  the  hill  from  tlie  castle. 
Stops  and  stares  at  our  cottage.  Ay, 
ay  !  stare  at  it :  it 's  all  you  have  left  us. 
Shame  upon  you  !  She  beautiful !  sleek 
as  a  miller's  mouse  !  Meal  enough,  meat 
enough,  well  fed  ;  but  beautiful  —  bah  ! 
Nay,  see,  why  slie  turns  down  the  path 
through  our  little  vineyard,  and  I  sneezed 
three  times  tiiis  morning.  Coming  to 
vi.-it  my  lord,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  too!  Why,  bless  the  saints  !  1  '11  be 
bound  to  confess  her  love  to  him  at  last. 
I  forgive  her,  I  forgive  her !  I  knew  it 
would  come  to  this  —  I  always  kuevr  it 
must  come  to  this!  {Going  up  to  door 
during  latter  part  of  speech  and  opens  it.) 
Come  in,  Madonna,  come  in.  (Retires  to 
front  of  table  and  curtseys  as  the  Lady 
GiovA'S'SK enters,  then  moves  chair  towards 
the  hearth.)  Nay,  let  me  place  this  chair 
for  your  ladyship. 

[Lady  Giovanna  moves  slowly  down 
stage,  then  crosses  to  chair,  looking 
about  her,  bows  as  she  sees  the  Ala- 
donna  over  fireplace,  then  sits  in  chair. 

lady  giovanna. 
Can  I  speak  with  the  Count  1 

ELISABETTA. 

Ay,  my  lady,  but  won't  you  speak  witli 
the  old  woman  first,  and  tell  her  all  about 
it  and  make  her  happy  ?  for  I  've  been  on 
Iny  knees  every  day  for  these  half-dozen 
years  in  hope  that  the  saints  would  send 
us  this  blessed  morning ;  and  he  always 
took  you  so  kindly,  he  always  took  the 
world  so  kindly.     When  he  was  a  little 


one,  and  I  put  the  bitters  on  my  breast 
to  wean  him,  he  made  a  wry  mouth  ar 
it,  but  he  took  it  so  kindly,  and  your 
ladyship  has  given  him  bitters  enough 
in  this  world,  and  he  never  made  a  wry 
mouth  at  you,  he  always  took  you  so 
kindly  —  which  is  more  than  I  did,  my 
huly,  more  than  I  did  —  and  he  so  hand- 
some —  and  bless  your  sweet  face,  }  ou 
look  as  beautiful  this  morning  as  the  very 
Madonna  her  own  self  —  and  better  late 
than  never  —  but  come  when  they  will 
—  then  or  now  —  it  's  all  for  the  best, 
come  when  they  will  —  they  are  made 
by  the  blessed  saints  —  these  marriages. 
[Raises  her  hands. 

LADY  GIOVANNA. 

Marriages  ?  I  shall  never  marry  again  I 

ELISABETTA  (rises  and  turns). 
Shame  ou  her  then  ! 

LADY  GIOVANNA. 

Where  is  the  Count  ? 


ELISABETTA. 


To  fly  his  falcon. 


Just  gone 


LADY  GIOVANNA. 


Call  him  back  and  say 
I  come  to  breakfast  with  him. 

ELISABETTA. 

Holy  mother ! 
To  breakfast !  Oh  sweet  saints  !  one  plate 

of  prunes ! 
Well,  Madam,  I  will  give  your  message 

to  him.  [Exit. 

LADY  GIOVANNA. 

His   falcon,  and   I  come  to  ask  for  his 

falcon. 
The  pleasure  of  his  eyes  —  boast  of  hiB 

hand  — 
Pride  of   his  heart  —  the   solace   of   his 

hours  — 
His  one  companion  here  —  nay,  I  have 

heard 

That,  thro'  his  late  magnificence  of  living 

And  this  last  costly  gift  to  miue  own  self, 

[Shows  diamond  necklace. 

He  hath  become    so   beggar'd,  that   his 

falcon 
Ev'n  wins  his  dinner  for  him  in  the  field. 
That  must  be  talk,  not  truth,  but  truth 

or  talk, 


660 


THE  FALCON. 


How  can  I  ask  for  his  falcon  ? 

[Rises  and  moves  as  she  speaks. 
O  my  sick  boy  ! 
My  daily  fading  Florio,  it  is  thou 
Hath  set  nie  this  hard  task,  for  when  I 

say 
What   can  I  do  —  what   can  I  get  for 

thee  ? 
He  answers,  "  Get  the  Count  to  give  me 

his  falcon, 
And  that  will  make  me  well."     Yet  if  I 

ask, 
He  loves  me,  and  he  knows  T  know  he 

loves  me ! 
Will  lie  not  ])ray  me  to  return  his  love. 
To  marry  him  ?  —  (pause)  —  I  can  never 

marry  him. 
His  graudsire  struck  my  grandsire  in  a 

brawl 
At  Florence,  and  my  grandsire   stabb'd 

him  there. 
The  feud  between  our  houses  is  the  bar 
I  cannot   cross ;   I   dare   not   brave    my 

brother, 
Break  with  my  kin.     My   brother  hates 

him,  scorns 
The  noblestiiaturcd  man  alive,  and  I  — 
Who  have  that  reverence  for  him  that  I 

scarce 
Dare  beg  him  to  receive  his  diamonds 

back  — 
How   can    I,   dare   I,   ask   him  for   his 

falcon  1 

[Puts  diamonds  in  her  casket. 


Re-enter  Count  and  Filippo. 
turns  to  ¥i  Li  I'PO. 


Count 


COUNT. 

Do  what  1  said  ;  I  caimot  do  it  myself. 

FILIPPO. 

Why  tiien,  my  lord,  we  are  pauper'd  out 
and  out. 

COUNT. 

Do  what  I  said! 

[Advances  and  hows  low. 
Welcome  to  this  poor  cottage,  my  dear 
lady. 

LADY   GIOVANNA. 

And  welcome  turns  a  cottage  to  a  palace. 

COUNT. 

'T  is  long  since  we  have  met ! 

lADY   GIOVANNA. 

To  make  ameads 


I  come  this  day  to  break  my  fast  with 
you. 

COUNT. 

I  am  much  honor'd  —  yes  — 

[Ttmis  fa  FiLiPPa 
Do  what  I  told  thee.     Must  I  do  it  my 
self? 

FILIPPO. 

I  will,  I  will.     (Siyhs.)     Poor  fellow  ! 

[Exit^ 

COUNT. 

Lady,  you  bring  your  light  into  my  cotp 
tage 

Who  never  deigu'd  to  shine  into  my  pal- 
ace. 

My  palace  wanting  you  was  but  a  cot- 
tage ; 

My  cottage,  while  you  grace  it,  is  a  pal- 
ace. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

In  cottage  or  in  ])alace,  being  still 
Beyond  vour  fortunes,  you  are  still  the 

kiug 
Of  courtesy  and  liberality. 

COUNT. 

I  trust  I  still  maintain  my  courtesy ; 
My  liberality  perforce  is  dead 
Thro'  lack  of  means  of  giving. 


LADY    GIOVANNA. 


To  ask  a  gift. 


Yet  I  come 

[Moves  toward  him  a  little. 


COUNT. 

It  will  be  hard,  I  fear, 
To  find  one  shock  upon  the  field  when  all 
The  harvest  has  been  carried. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

But  my  boy  — 
(Aside.)  No,  no !  not  yet  —  I  cannot ! 

COUNT. 

Ay,  how  is  he, 
That  bright   inheritor    of  your    eyes  — 
your  boy  ? 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Alas,  my  Lord  Federigo,  he  hath  fallen 
Into  a  sickness,  and  it  troubles  me. 

COUNT. 

Sick !  is  it  so  ?  why,  when  he  came  last 
year 


THE   FALCON. 


661 


To  see  me  lia\vkin<i:,  he  was  well  enough  : 
And  theu  I  taiiglit  him  all  our  liawkiug- 
plirase.s. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Oh  yes,  and  once  you  let  him  fly  your 
falcon. 

COUNT. 

How  charni'd  he  was  !  what  wonder  ?  — 

A  gallant  boy, 
A  noble  bird,  each  perfect  of  the  breed. 

LADY  GiovANNA  {sinks  in  chair). 
What  do  you  rate  her  at  'C 

COUNT. 

My  bird  'f  a  hundred 
Gold   pieces   once   were   offer'd    by   the 

Duke. 
I  had  no  heart  to  part  with  her  for  money. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

No,  not  for  money. 

[Coi'NT  turns  aicay  and  sujhs. 
Wherefore  do  you  sigh  ? 

COUNT. 

I  have  lost  a  friend  of  late. 

LAD\     GIOVANNA. 

I  could  sigh  with  you 
For  fear  of  losing  more   than  friend,  a 

son  ; 
And    if   he   leave    me  —  all   the   rest  of 

life  — 
That  wither'd  wreatli  were  of  more  worth 
to  me. 

[Looking  at  wreath  on  ivall, 

COUNT. 

That  wither'd  wreath  were  of  more  worth 

to  me 
Than  all  the  blossom,  .ill  the  leaf  of  this 
New-wakening-  year. 

[Goes  and  takes  down  wreath. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

And  yet  I  never  saw 
The  laud  so  rich  in  blossom  as  this  year. 

COUNT  {holding  wreath  toward  her). 

Was  not  the  year  when  this  was  gather'd 
richer  ? 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

How  long  ago  was  that  ? 


COUNT. 

Alas,  ten  summers  S 
A  lady  that  was  beautiful  as  day 
Sat  by  me  at  a  rustic  festival 
With    other    beauties    ou    a    mountain 

meadow, 
And  she  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all  ■ 
Then  but  fifteen,  and  still  as  beautiful. 
The  mountain  flowers  grew  liiickly  rouiu. 

about. 
I  made  a  wreath  with  some  of  tiiese ;  I 

ask'd 
A  ribbon  from  her  hair  to  bind  it  v.  ith ; 
I  whisper'd,  Let  me  crown  you  Queen  o!; 

Beauty, 
And    softly    placed   the    cliaplet   on    her 

head. 
A  color,  which  has  color'd  all  my  life, 
Flush'd   in   her  face ;  theu  I  was  call'd 

away  ; 
And  presently  all  rose,  and  so  departed. 
Ah !  she  had  thrown  my  chaplet  on  the 

grass, 
And  there  I  found  it. 

[Lets  his  hands  full,  holding  wreath 
despundinglg. 

LADY    GIOVANNA    {ujler    jHlUSe). 

How  long  since  do  you  say  ? 

COUNT. 

That  was  the  very  year  before  you  mar- 
ried. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

When  I  was  married  you  were  at  the 
wars. 

COUNT. 

Had  she  not  tlirown  my  chaplet  ou  the 

grass, 
It  may  be  I  had  never  seen  the  wars. 
[Replaces  irrcalh  whence  he  hail  taken  it. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Ah,  but,  my  lord,  there  ran  a  rumor  then 
That  you  were  kill'd  in  battle.    I  can  tell 

you 
True  tears  that  year  were  shed  for  you 

in  Florence. 

COUNT. 

It  might  have  been  as  well  for  me.     Un- 
happily 
I  was  but  wounded  by  the  enemy  there 
And  then  imprison'd. 


662 


THE   FALCON. 


LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Happily,  however, 
I  see  you  quite  recover'd  of  your  wouud. 

COUNT. 

No,  no,  not  quite,  Madonna,  not  yet,  not 
yet. 

Re-enter  Filippo. 

PILIPPO. 

My  lord,  a  woru  with  you. 

COUNT. 

Pray  pardon  me ! 

[Lady  Giovanna  crosses,  and  passes 
behind  chair  and  takes  down 
wreath  ;  then  goes   to  chair  by  table. 

COUNT  {to  Filippo). 
What  is  it,  Filippo  ? 

FILIPPO. 

Spoons,  your  lordship. 

COU}yT. 

Spoons  ! 

FILIPPO. 

Yes,  my  lord,  for  was  n't  my  lady  born 
with  a  golden  spoon  in  her  ladyship's 
month,  and  we  have  n't  never  as  much  as 
a  silver  oue  for  the  golden  lips  of  her 
ladyship. 

COUNT. 

Have   we   not    half    a    score   of    silver 
spoons  ? 

FILIPPO. 

Half  o'  one,  my  lord  ! 


How  half  of  one  ? 

FILIPPO. 

I  trod  upon  him  even  now,  my  lord,  in 
my  hurry,  and  broke  him. 

COUNT. 

And  the  other  nine  ■? 


Sold  ;  but  shall  I  not  mount  with. your 
lordship's  leave  to  her  ladyship's  castle, 
in  your  lordship's  and  her  ladyship's 
name,  and  confer  with  her  ladyship's 
seneschal,  and  so  descend  again  with 
some  of  her  ladyship's  own  appurte- 
aanccs  ? 


COUNT. 

Why  —  no,  man.     Only  see  your  cioth 
be  clean. 

{Exit  Filippo 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Ay,  ay,  this  faded  ribbon  was  the  mode 
In   Florence   ten  years    back.      What  ''z 

here  1  a  scroll 
Pinn'd  to  the  wreath. 

My  lord,  you  have  said  so  much 
Of  this   poor   wreath   that   I   was   bold 

enough 
To  take  it  down,  if  but  to  guess  what 

flowers 
Had  made  it  ;  and  I  find  a  written  scroll 
That  seems  to  run  in  rhymiugs.     Might 

I  read  ? 

COUNT.     • 

Ay,  if  you  will. 

LADY   GIOVANNA. 

It  should  be  if  you  can, 
(Reads.)    "  Dead   mountain."     Nay,   for 

who  could  trace  a  hand 
So  wild  and  staggering  ? 


This  was  penn'd.  Madonna, 
Close  to  the  grating  on  a  winter  morn 
In  the  perpetual  twilight  of  a  prison. 
When  he  that  made  it,  having  his  right 

hand 
Lamed  in  the   battle,  wrote  it   with  his 

left. 

LADY  GIOVANNA. 

Oil  heavens !  the  very  letters  seem  to 
shake 

With  cold,  with  pain  perhaps,  poor  pris- 
oner !  Well, 

Tell  me  the  words  —  or  better  —  for  I 
see 

There  goes  a  musical  score  along  with 
them. 

Repeat  them  to  their  music. 

COUNT. 

You  can  touch 
No  chord  in  me  that  would  not  answer 

you 
In  music. 

LADY  GIOVANNA. 

That  is  musically  said. 
[Count  takes  guitar.  Lady  Giovanna 
sits  listening,  loith  wreath  in  her  hand^ 
andqnietli/  removes  scroll  and  places  il 
on  table  at  the  end  of  the  song. 


THE   FALCON. 


663 


COUNT  {si7)ffs,  playing  guitar). 

"Dead  mouutaiii  flowers,  dead  moimtain- 
ire-:idu\v  flowers, 

Dearer  tlum  whcu  you  made  your  moun- 
tain gay, 

Sweeter  ihan  any  violet  of  to-day, 

Richer  than  all  the  wide  world-wealth  of 
May, 

To  me,  tlio'  all  your  bloom  has  died 
away, 

5rou  bloom  agaiu,  dead  mouutaiu-meadow 
flowers." 

Enter  Elisabetta  with  cloth. 

ELISABETTA. 

A  ^Tord  with  you,  my  lord  ! 

CODNT  {singing). 

"  O  mountain  flowers  !  " 

ELISABETTA. 

A  word,  my  lord!   (Loader.) 

COUNT  (sings). 
"  Dead  flowers ! " 

ELISABETTA. 

A  word,  my  lord  !  (Louder.) 


I  pray  you  pardon  me  again  ! 

[Lady  Giovanna  looking  at  wreath. 

COUNT  {<o  Elisabetta.) 

"What  is  it  1 

ELISABETTA. 

My  lord,  we  have  but  one  piece  of 
earthenware  to  serve  the  salad  in  to  my 
lady,  and  that  cracked  !• 

COUNT. 

Why  then,  that  flower'd  bowl  my  ancestor 
Fetch'd  from  the  farthest  east  —  we  never 

use  it 
For  fear  of  breakage  —  but  this  day  has 

brought 
A  great    occasion.      You   can    take   it, 

nurse  1 

ELISABETTA. 

I  did  take  it,  my  lord,  but  what  with 
my  lady's  coming  that  had  so  flurried 
me,  and  what  with  tlie  fear  of  breaking 
it,  I  did  break  it,  my  lord  :  it  is  broken  1 


My  one  thing  left  of  value  in  the  world  ! 
No  matter !  slc  your  cloth  be  white  a? 
snow  ! 

ELISABETTA  (pointing  thro'  window). 

Wliite  ?  I  warrant  thee,  my  son,  as  the 
snow  yonder  on  the  very  tip-top  o'  the 
mountain. 

COUNT. 

And  yet  to  speak  white  trulh,  my  good 

old  mother, 
I   have  seen   it   like    the    snow  on   the 

moraine. 

ELISABETTA. 

How  can  your  lordship  say  so  ?     There, 
my  lord  !  [Lai/s  cloth. 

0  my  dear  son,  be  not  unkind  to  me. 
And  one  word  more.        [Going  — returns. 

COUNT  (touching  guitar). 

Good  !  let  it  be  but  one. 

ELISABETTA. 

Hath  she  return'd  thy  love  ? 

COUNT. 

Not  yet ! 

ELISABETTA. 

And  will  she? 
COUNT  (looking  at  Lady  Giovanna). 

1  scarce  believe  it ! 


ELISABETTA. 

Shame  upon  her  then  ! 


[Exit 


COUNT  (sings). 

"  Dead  mountain  flowers  " 

Ah  well,  my  nurse  has  broken 
The  thread  of  my  dead  flowers,  as  she 

has  broken 
My  china  bowl.    My  memory  is  as  dead. 
[Goes  and  replaces  guitar. 
Strange  that  the  words  at  home  with  me 

so  long 
Should  fly  like  bosom  friends  when  needed 

most. 
So  by  your  leave  if  you  would  hear  the 

rest, 
The  writing 

LADY  GIOVANNA   (holding  wreath  toivard 
hi7n). 
There  !  my  lord,  you  are  a  poet. 


664 


THE  FALCON. 


And    can    you    not    imagine    that    the 

wreath, 
Set,  as  you  say,  so  lightly  on  her  head. 
Fell  with  her  motion  as  she  rose,  and  she, 
A  girl,  a  child,  then  but  fifteen,  however 
Flut'ter'd  or  flatter'd  by  your  notice  of 

her, 
Was  yet  too  bashful  to  return  for  it  ? 

COUNT. 

Was  it  so  ii-ilf-3d  ?  was  it  so  ?  w;is  it  so? 

[Leuiis  foru-ard  to   take  itrealh,   and 

touches   Lady   Giovanna's  hand, 

which   she    withdraws    hasti/ij  ;    he 

peaces  wreath  on  corner  of  chair. 

LADY   CIOVANNA  {with  dignity). 

I  did  not  S3y,  my  lord,  that  it  was  so ; 
I  said  you  might  imagine  it  was  so. 

Enter  Filippo  with  howl  of  salad,  which 
he  places  on  table. 


Here  's  a  fine  salad  for  my  lady,  for  tho' 
we  have  been  a  soldivii,  and  liddou  by  his 
lordship's  side,  and  seen  the  red  of  the 
battlefield,  yet  are  we  now  drill-sergeant 
to  his  lordship's  lettuces,  and  profess  to 
be  great  in  green  things  and  in  garden- 
stuff. 

LADY     GIOVANNA. 

I  thank  you,  good  Filippo. 

[Exit  Filippo. 

Enter  Elisabetta   loith   bird  on  a  dish 
which  she  places  on  table. 

elisabetta  (close  to  table). 

Here  's  a  fine  fowl  for  my  lady  ;  I  had 
scant  time  to  do  him  in.  I  hope  he  be 
not  underdone,  for  we  be  undone  in  the 
doing  of  him. 

LADY     GIOVANNA. 

I  thank  you,  my  good  nurse. 

FILIPPO  {reentering  with  plate  of  prunes). 

And  here  are  fine  fruits  for  my  lady 
--  prunes,  my  lady,  from  the  tree  that 
my  lord  himself  planted  here  in  the  blos- 
som of  his  boyhood  —  and  so  I,  Filippo, 
being,  with  your  ladyship's  pardon,  and 
as  your  ladyship  knows,  his  lordship's 
own  foster-brother,  would  commend  them 
to  your  ladyship's  most  peculiar  apprecia- 
tion. 

[Puts  plate  on  table. 


ELISABETTA. 
Filippo ! 

LADY   GIOVANNA.   (CouNT   leads   her   tn 
table. ) 

Will  you  not  eat  with  me,  my  lord  1 

COUNT. 

I  cannot, 
Not  a  morsel,   not  one  morsel.    I  have 

broken 
My  fast   already.      I   will   pledge   ycu. 

Wine ! 
Filippo,  wine ! 

[Sits  near  table;  Filippo  brings  Jlask, 

Jills  the  Count's  goblet,  then  Lady 

Giovanna's  ;  Elisabetta  stands. 

at  the  back  of  Lady  Giovanna's 

chair. 


It  is  but  thin  and  cold, 
Not  like  the  vintage  blowing  round  your 

castle. 
We   lie   too  deep  down  in   the  shadow 

here. 
Your  ladyship  lives  higher  in  the  sun. 

[They  pledge  each  other  and  drinL. 

lady     GIOVANNA. 

If  I  might  send  you  down  a  flask  or  two 
Of  that  same  vintage  f     There   is   iron 

in  it. 
It  has  been  much  commended  as  a  med 

icine. 
I  give  it  my  sick  son,  and  if  you  be 
Not  quite  recover'd  of  your  wound,  the 

wine 
Might  help  you.     None  has  ever  told  me 

yet 
The   story   of    your    battle    and    your 

wound. 

FILIPPO  [coming  forward). 
I  can  tell  you,  my  lady,  I  can  tell  you. 

ELISABETTA. 

Filippo ;  will  you  take  the  word  out  ol 
your  master's  own  mouth  ? 


Was  it  there  to  take  ?     Put  it  there,  my 
lord. 


Giovanna,  my   dear   ladv,    in    this  same 

battle 
We  had  been  beaten  —  they  were  ten  to 

one. 


THE   FALCON. 


665 


The  trumpets  of  the   fight  had  echo'd 

down, 
I  aud  Filijipo  here  had  done  our  best, 
Aud,  having  passed  umvouuded  from  tiie 

field, 
Were  seated  sadly  at  a  fountain  side, 
Our  liorses  grazing  by  us,  when  a.  troop, 
Laden  witli  booty  and  with  a  flag  of  ours 
Ta'en  in  tlie  fitrlit  — 


Ay,  but  we  fought  for  it  back, 
An-lkill'd  — 

ELISABETTA. 

Filippo ! 

COUNT. 

A  troop  of  liorse  — 

FILIPPO. 


Five  hundred ! 


Say  fifty ! 


COUNT. 


FILIPPO. 

And  wo  iiill'd  'em  by  the  score  1 

ELISABETTA. 

Filippo ! 

FILIPPO. 

Well,  well,  well !     I  bite  my  tongue. 

COUNT. 

We  may  have  left  their  fifty  less  b^five. 

However,  staying  not  to  count  how 
many, 

But  anger'd  at  their  flaunting  of  our  flag, 

We  mounted,  aud  we  dashed  into  the 
heart  of  'em. 

I  wore  the  lady's  cha])let  round  my  ueck  ; 

It  served  me  for  a  blessed  rosary. 

I  am  sure  tliat  more  than  one  brave  fel- 
low owed 

His  death  to  the  charm  in  it. 

ELISABETTA. 

Hear  that,  my  lady  ! 

COUNT. 

I  cannot  tell  how  long  we  strove  before 
Our  horses  fell  beneath    us  ;   down    we 

went 
Crush'd,  hach'd  at,  trampled  underfoot. 

The  ni.uht, 
As    some    cold-manner'd      friend     may 

strangely  do  us 
The  truest  service,  had  a  touch  of  frost 


That  help'd  to  check  the  flowing  of  the 

blood. 
My  last  sight  ere  I  swoon'd  was  one  sweet 

face 
Crown'd  with  tlie  wreath.     That  seem'd 

to  come  and  go. 
Tliey  left  us  there  for  dead  ! 

ELISABETTA. 

Hear  that,  my  lady  ! 

FILIPPO. 

Ay,  and  I  left  two  fingers  there  for  dead. 
See,  my  lady  !  (Showing  his  hand.) 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

I  see,  Filippo ! 

FILIPPO. 

And  I  have  small  hope  of  the  gentlema-i 
gout  in  my  great  toe. 

LADY     GIOVANNA. 

And  wiiy,  Filippo?         [Smiling absently. 

FILIPPO. 

I  left  him  there  for  dead,  too ! 

ELISABETTA. 

She  smiles  at  him  —  how  hard  the  wo- 
man is ! 
My  lady,  if  your  ladyship  were  not 
Too  ])roud  to  look  upon  the  garland,  you 
Would  find  it  stain'd 

COUNT  [rising). 

Silence,  Elisabetta ! 

ELISABETTA. 

Stain'd  with  the  blood  of  the  best  heart 

that  ever 
Beat  for  one  woman. 

[Points  to  wreath  on  chaii 

LADY  GIOVANNA  (rising  slowly). 

1  can  eat  no  more! 

COUNT. 

You   have    but  trifled  with   our  homely 

salad, 
But  dallied  with  a  single  lettuce-leaf; 
Not  eaten  anything. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Nay,  n.iy,  I  cannoL 
You    know,  my  lord,  I  told   you  I  was 

troul)led. 
My  one  child  Florio  lying  still  so  sick, 


666 


THE   FALCON. 


I  bound  myself,  and  by  a  solemn  vow, 
That  I  would  touch  uo  flesh  till  he  were 

well 
Here,  or  else  well  in  Heaven,  where  all  is 

well. 
[Elisabetta  clears  table  of  bird  and 

salad :  Filippo  snatches  tip  the  plate 

af  prunes  and  holds  them  to  Lady 

GlOVANNA. 
FILIPPO. 

But  the  prunes,  iny  lady,  from  the  tree 
that  his  lordship  — 

LADY    GIOTANNA. 

Not  now,  Filippo.     My  lord  Federigo, 
Can   I  not   speak  with  you  once  more 
alone  ? 

COUNT. 

You  hear,  Filippo  ?    My  good  fellow,  go ! 

FILIPPO. 

But  the  prunes  that  your  lordship  — 

ELISABETTA. 

Filippo  ! 

COUNT. 

Ay,  prune  our  company  of  thine  own  and 
go! 

ELISABETTA. 

Filippo  ! 

FILIPPO  (.turning). 
Well,  well  !  the  women!  [Exit. 

COUNT. 

And  thou  too  leave  us,  my  dear  nurse, 
alone. 

ELISABETTA  (folding  up  cloth  and  (joinrj). 
And  me  too  !  Ay,  the  dea  r  nurse  will 
leave  you  alone ;  but,  for  all  that,  she 
that  has  eaten  the  yolk,  is  scarce  like  to 
swallow  the  shell. 

\Turns  and curtseijs  to  Lady  Giovanna, 
then  exit.  Lady  Giovanna  takes 
out  diamond  necklace  from   casket. 

LADY     giovanna. 

i  have   angcr'd   your  good  nurse ;  these 

old-world  servants 
Are  all  but  flesh  and  blood  with,  those 

they  serve. 
My  lord,  I  Iiave  a  present  to  return  yon. 
And  afterwards  a  boon  to  crave  of  you. 

COUNT. 

No,  my  most  honor'd  and  long-worshipt 
"lady. 


Poor  Federigo  degli  Alberighi 
Takes  nothing  in  return  from  you  except 
Keturu  of  his  affection  —  can  deny 
Nothing  to  you  that  you  require  of  him. 

LADY     GIOVANNA. 

Then   I  require  you  to  take  back  your 

diamonds  — 

[Offering  neck/ace 
I  doubt  not  they  are  yours.    No  other 

heart 
Of  such  magnificence  in  courtesy 
Beats  —  out  of  heaven.     They  seem'd  too 

rich  a  prize 
To  trust  with   an}'  messenger.     I  came 
In  person  to  return  them. 

[Count  draws  back. 

If  the  phrase 

"  Return"  displease  you,  we  will  say — 

exchange  them 
For  your  —  for  your 

count  (takes  a  step  toward  her  and  then 
back). 
For  mine  —  and  -what  of  mine  ? 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Well,  shall  we  say  this  wreath  and  your 
sweet  rhymes  ? 

count. 
But  have  you  ever  worn  my  diamonds  ? 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

No! 
For  that  would  seem  accepting  of  your 

love. 
I  cannot  brave  my  brother  —  but  be  sure 
That  1  shall  never  marry  again,  my  lord ! 


Sure? 


LADY    GIOVANNA. 


Yes! 

COUNT. 

Is  this  your  brother's  order  ? 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

No'! 
For  he  would  marry  me  to  the  richest  man 
In  Florence  ;  but  I  think  you  know  the 

saying  — 
"  Better  a  man  without  riches,  than  riches 
without  a  man." 

COUNT. 

A  noble   saying — and  acted    on   would 

yield 
A  nobler  breed  of  men  and  women.  Ladj; 


THE  FALCON. 


667 


I  find  you  a   shrewd    bargainer.     The 

wrenth 
That  once  \  ou  wore  outvalues  twenty-fold 
The  diamonds  thut  you  never  deign'd  to 

wear. 
But  lav  thum  there  for  a  moment ! 

[Points  to  table.     Lady   Giovanna 

places  necklace  on  tnhle. 

And  he  you 

Gracious  enough  to  let  me  know  the  boon 

By  granting;-  wiiich,  if  aught  be  mine  to 

grant, 
I  should   1)6  made   more    happy  than   I 

hoped 
Ever  to  be  again. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Then  keep  your  wreath, 
But  you  will  find  me  a  shrewd  bargainer 

still. 
I  cannot  keep  your  diamonds,  for  the  gift 
I  ask  for,  to  mii  mind  and  .it  this  present 
Outvalues  all  the  jewels  upon  earth. 

COUNT. 

It  should  be  like  love,  that  thus  outval- 
ues all. 

You  speak  like  love  and  yet  you  love  me 
not. 

I  have  nothing  iu  this  world  but  love  for 
you. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Love  ?  it  is  love,  love  for  my  dying  boy, 
Moves  me  to  ask  it  of  you. 


What  ?  my  time  ? 
is  it  my  time  ?    Well,  I  can  give  my  time 
To  him  that  is  a  part  of  yon,  your  son. 
Shall  I   return   to  the  castle  with  vou  ? 

Shall  1 
Sit  by  him,  read   to  him,  tell  him    my 

tales. 
Sing  him  my  songs  ?     You  know  that  I 

can  touch 
The  ghitteru  to  some  purpose. 

LADY     GIOVANNA. 

No,  not  that ! 
f  thank  you  heartily  for  that  —  and  yoii, 
I  doubt  not  from  your  nobleness  of  na- 
ture, 
Will  pardon  me  for  asking  what  I  ask. 

CODNT. 

Giovanna,  dear  Giovanna,  I  that  once 
The  wildest  of  the  random  youth  of  Flor- 
ence 


Before  I  saw  you  —  all  my  nobleness 
Of  nature,  as  you  dcigu  to  call  it,  draws 
From   you,  and   from  my  constancy  to 

you. 
No  more,  but  speak. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

I  will.     Yon  know  sick  people, 
More  specially  sick  children,  have  strange 

fancies. 
Strange  longings  ;  and  to  thwart  them  in 

their  mood 
May  work  them  grievous  harm  at  times, 

may  even 
Hasten  their  end.     I  would  you  had  a 

son ! 
It  might  be  easier  then  for  you  to  make 
Allowance    for   a    mother  —  her  —  who 

comes 
To  rob  yon  of  your  one  delight  on  earth. 
How  often  has  my  sick  boy  yearn'd  for 

this  ! 
I  have  |)ut  him  off  as  often  ;  but  to-day 
I  dared  not  —  so  much  weaker,  so  much 

worse 
For  last  day's  journey.     I  was  weeping 

for  him  ; 
He  gave  me  his  hand :  "  I  should  be  well 

again 
If  the  good  Count  would  give  me " 

COUNT. 

Give  me. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Hia  falcon. 

COUNT  (stoats  back). 
My  falcon ! 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Yes,  your  falcon,  Federigo  1 

COONT. 

Alas,  I  cannot ! 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Cannot  ?     Even  so  \ 
I    fear'd    as    much.     Oh,  this    unhappy 

world  ! 
How  shall  I  break  it  to  him  ?  how  shall  I 

tell  him  ? 
The  boy  may  die  :  more  blessed  were  the 

rags 
Of  some  jiale  beggar-woman  seeking  alms 
For  her  sick  son,  if  he  were  like  to  live, 
Than   all   my  childless    wealth,  if  mine 

must  die. 


668 


THE   FALCON. 


I  was  to  blame  —  the  love  you  said  you 
bore  me  — 

My  lord,  we  thauk  you  for  your  entertain- 
ment. I  With  a  stately  curtsey. 

And  so  return  —  Heaven  help  him  !  — 
to  our  son.  [Tuins. 

COUNT  {rushes forward). 
Stay  stay,  I  am  most  unlucky,  most  un- 
happy. 
Yon  never  had  look'd  on  me  before, 
A.nd  when  you  came  and  dipt  your  sov- 
ereign liead 
Thro'  these  low  doors,  you  ask'd  to  eat 

with  me. 
I  had  but  emptiness  to  set  before  you, 
No  not  a  draught  of  milk,  no  not  an  egg, 
Nothing  iiut  my  brave  bird,  my  noble  fal- 
con, 
My  comrade   of   the  house,  and  of  the 

field. 
She  haii  to  die  for  it  —  she  died  for  you. 
Perhaps  .1  thought  with  those  of  old,  the 

nobler 
The  victim  was,  the  more  acceptable 
Miglit  be  tlie  sacrifice.     1  fear  you  scarce 
Will   thank  me  for  your    entertainment 
now. 

LA£)\   GiovANNA   {returning). 
I  bear  with  him  no  longer. 

COUNT. 

No,  Madonna ! 
And  he  will  have  to  bear  with  it  as  he 
may. 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

I  break  with  him  for  ever  I 

COUNT. 

Yes,  Giovanna, 
But  he  will  keep  his  love  to  you  for  ever  ! 

LADY    GIOVANNA. 

Toi'.  T  you  ?  not  you  !  My  brother !  my 
hard  brother! 


0  Federigo,  Federigo,  I  love  you  ! 

Spite  of  ten  thousand  brothers,  Federiga 
[Falls  at  his  feet. 

COUNT  (impetuously). 
Why  then  the  dying  of  my  noble  bird 
Hath  served  me  better  than  her  living— =■ 
then 

[Takes  diamonds  from  table. 

These   diamonds     are    both   yours    and 

mine  —  have  won 
Their  value  again  —  beyond  all  markets 

—  there 

1  lay  them  for  the  first  time  round  your 

neck. 

[Lays  necklace  round  her  neck. 
And  then  this  chaplet  —  No  more  feuds, 

but  peace. 
Peace  and  conciliation  !     I  will  make 
Your  brother  love  me.     See,  I  tear  away 
The  leaves  were  darkeu'd  by  the  battle  — 
[Pulls  leaves  off  and  throws  them  down. 
—  crown  you 
Again  with  the  same  crown  my  Queen  of 
Beauty. 

[Places  ivreath  on  her  head. 
Rise  —  I    could    almost   think   that    the 

dead  garland 
Will   break  ouce   more   into  the  living 

blossom. 
Nay,  nay,  I  pray  you  rise. 

[Raises  her  ivith  both  hands. 

We  two  together 

Will  help  to  heal  your  son  —  your  sou 

and  mine  — 
We  shall  do  it  —  we  shall  do  it. 

[  Embraces  her. 
The    purpose   of    my   being   is  accom- 

plish'd. 
And  I  am  happy  ! 

LADY  GIOVANNA. 

And  I  too,  Federigo, 


TIRESIAS. 


mo 


TIRESIAS  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 

DEDICATION. 


TO    MY    GOOD    FRIEND 

ROBERT     BROWNING, 

WBOSE    GEMtIS    AND    GENIALITY   WILL    BEST    APPRECIATE    WHAT    MAY    BE    BEST, 

A«D    MAKE    MOST    ALLOWANCE    FOR   WHAT    MAY    BE    WORST,    THIS    VOLUME 

19    AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATED. 


TO   E.  FITZGERALD. 

Old  Fitz,  who  from  your  suburb  grange. 

Where  once  I  tarried  for  a  wliile, 
Glance  at  the  wheelini:  Orb  of  change, 

And  greet  it  with  a  kindly  smile  ; 
Whom  yet  I  see  as  there  you  sit 

Beneath  your  shelteriin:  garden-tree, 
And  watch  your  doves  about  you  flit, 

And  plant  on  shouMer,  hand,  and  knee. 
Or  on  your  head  their  rosy  feet, 

As  if  they  knew  your  diet  spares 
Whatever  moved  in  tliat  full  sheet 

Let  down  to  Peter  at  his  prayers  ; 
Who  live  on  milk  and  meal  and  grass ; 

And  once  for  ten  long  weeks  I  tried 
Your  table  of  Pythagoras, 

And  seem'd  at  first  "  a  thing  cnskied  " 
(As  Shakes])eare  has  it)  airy-light 

To  float  above  the  ways  of  men. 
Then  fell  from  that  half-spiritual  height 

Chill'd,  till  I  tasteil  flesii  again 
One  night  when  earth  was  winter-black, 

And  all  the  heavens  flash'd  in  frost; 
And  on  me,  lialf-asleep,  came  back 

Tliat  wliolesome   lieat   the  blood   had 
lost, 
And  set  me  climbing  icy  capes 

And  glaciers,  over  which  there  roil'd 
To  meet  mo  long-arm'd  vines  with  grapes 

Of  Eshcol  luigeness  ;  for  the  cold 
Without,  and  warmtli  within  me,  wrought 

To  mould  the  dream  ;  but  none  can  say 
That  Lenten  fare  makes  Lenten  thought, 

Who  reads  your  golden  Eastern  lay, 
Than  which  I  know  no  version  done 

In  English  more  divinely  well ; 
A  planet  equal  to  the  sun 

Which  cast  it,  that  large  infidel 
Your  Omar  ■  and  your  Omar  drew 

Full-handed  plaudits  from  our  best 
In  modern  letters,  and  from  two, 

Old  friends  outvaluing  all  the  rest, 


Two  voices  Iieard  on  earth  no  more ; 

But  we  old  friends  are  still  alive. 
And  I  am  neariug  seventy-four, 

While   you  have   touch'd   at   seventy- 
five. 
And  SO  I  send  a  birthday  line 

Of  greeting;  and  my  son,  who  dipt 
In  some  forgotten  book  of  mine 

With  sallow  scraps  of  manuscript, 
And  dating  many  a  year  ago. 

Has  liit  on  this,  which  you  will  take 
My  Fitz,  and  welcome,  as  I  know 

Less  for  its  own  than  for  the  sake 
Of  one  recalling  gracious  times. 

When,  in  our  younger  London  days, 
You  found  some  merit  in  my  rhymes, 

Aud  I  more  pleasure  in  your  praise. 


TIRESIAS. 

I  wish  I  were  as  in  the  years  of  oid. 
While  yet  the  blessed  davliglit  made  it" 

self 
Ruddy  thro'  both  the  roofs  of  sight,  aud 

woke 
These  eyes,  now  dull,  but  then  so  keen 

to  seek 
The  meanings  ambush'd  under  all  they 

saw. 
The  flight  of  birds,  the  flame  of  sacrifice 
What    omens   may   foreshadow   fate   tc 

man 
And  woman,  and  the  secret  of  the  Gods. 
My  son,  the  Gods,  despite  of  human 

prayer, 
Are  slower  to  forgive  than  human  kings. 
The   great    God,   Ares,  burns   in   anger 

still 
Against  the  guiltless  heirs*  of  him  from 

Tyre, 
Our  Cadmus,  out  of  whom  thou  art,  who 

found 


^.70 


TIRESIAS. 


Beside  the  springs  of  Dirce,  smote,  and 

still'd 
Thro'    all    its    folds    the    multitudinous 

beiist, 
The  Dragou,  which  our  trembling  fathers 

call'd 
The  God's  own  son. 

A  tale,  that  told  to  me, 
When  but  thine  age,  by  age  as  winter- 
white 
As  mine  is  now,  amazed,  but  made  me 

vearn 
For  larger  glimpses  of  that  more  than 

man 
Which  rolls  the  heavens,  and  lifts,  and 

lays  the  deep, 
Yet  loves  and  hates  with   mortal  hates 

and  loves 
And  moves  unseen  among  the  ways  of 

men. 
Then,  in  my  wanderings  all  the  lands 

that  lie 
Subjected  to  the  Heliconian  ridge 
Have  heard  this  footstep  fall,  altho'  my 

wont 
Was  more  to  scale  the   highest  of  the 

heights 
With  some  strange  hope  to  see  the  nearer 

God. 
One  naked   peak  —  the   sister  of   the 

sun 
Would   climb   from    out   the   dark,   and 

linger  there 
To  silver  all  the  valleys  with  her  shafts  — 
There  once,  but  long  ago,  five-fold    thy 

term 
'  Of  years,  I  lay  ;  the  winds  were  dead  for 

heat ; 
The  noonday  crag  made  the  hand  burn  ; 

and  sick 
For  shadow — not  one  hush  was  near  — 

I  rose 
Following  a  torrent  till  its  myriad  falls 
Found    silence    in    the    hollows    under- 
neath. 
There  in  a  secret  olive-crlnde  I  saw 
Pallas  Athene  climbing  from  the  bath 
In   anger  :   yet   one   glittering  foot   dis- 

tnrb'd" 
The  lucid   well ;   one   snowy   knee   was 

prest 
Against  the  margin  flowers ;  a  dreadful 

li-ht 
Came  from  her  golden  hair,  her  golden 

helm 
And  all  her  golden  armor  on  the  grass, 
And  from  her  virgin  breast,  and  virgin 

eyes 


Remaining  fixt  on  mine,  till  mine  grew 

dark 
For  ever,  and  I  heard  a  voice  that  i-aid 
"  Henceforth  be  blind,  for  thou  hast  seen 

too  much, 
And  speak  the  truth  that  no  man  may 

believe." 
Son,  in  the  hidden  world  of  sight,  that 

lives 
Behind  this  darkness,  I  behold  her  stiU, 
Beyond  all  work  of  those  who  carve  the 

stone, 
Beyond  all  dreams   of   Godlike  woman- 
hood, 
Ineffable    beauty,    out    of    whom,    at    a 

glance. 
And  as  it  were,  perforce,  upon  me  flash'd 
The  power  of  prophesying  —  but  to  me 
No  power  —  so  chain'd  and  coupled  with 

the  curse 
Of    blindness    and    their    unbelief,   who 

heard 
And  heard  not,  when  I  spake  of  famine, 

])lague, 
Shrine-shattering  earthquake,  fire,  flood, 

thunderbolt, 
And  angers  of  the  Gods  for  evil  done 
And    expiation    lack'd  —  no    power    on 

Fate, 
Theirs,    or    mine    own !    for   when    the 

crowd  would  roar 
For  blood,  for  war,  whose  issue  was  their 

doom, 
To  cast  wise  words  among  the  multitude 
Was  flinging  fruit  to  lions ;  nor,  in  hours 
(>i  civil  outl)reak,  when  I  knew  the  twain 
AVould    each  waste  each,  and  bring  on 

both  the  yoke 
Of  stronger  states,  was  mine  the  voice  to 

curb 
The    madness   of    our    cities    and    their 

kings. 
Who  ever  turn'd  upon  his  heel  to  hear 
My  warning  that  the  tyranny  of  one 
Was  prelude  to  the  tyranny  of  all  ? 
My  counsel  that  the  tyranny  of  all 
Led  backward  to  the  tyranny  of  one? 
This  ])ower  hath  work'd  no  good  tc 

anght  tliat  lives, 
And  these  blind  hands  were   useless  in 

their  wars. 
O  therefore  that  the  nnfulfill'd  desire. 
The  grief  for  ever  born  from  griefs   to 

be. 
The  boundless  yearning  of  the  Prophet's 

heart  — 
Could  thni  stand  forth,  and  like  a  stataOj 

rear'd 


TIRESIAS. 


6T1 


To  some  great  citizen,   win  all    praise 

from  all 
Who  jiasc  it,  saving,  "  That  was  he  !  " 

lu  vain ! 
Virtue  must    shape  itself  in   deed,   and 

tlioso 
Whom     weakness     or     necessity     have 

cramp'd 
Within  themselves,  immergiug,  each,  his 

urn 
In  his  uwu  well,  draw  solace  as  he  may. 
Menaceus,  thou  hast   eyes,  and  1  can 

hear 
Too  ])lainly  wliat  full  tides  of  onset  sap 
Our  seven  high  gates,  and  what  a  weight 

of  war 
Rides  on  those  ringing  axles !  jingle  of 

bits, 
Siiouts,  arrows,  tramp  of  the  hornfooted 

horse 
That  grind  the  glebe  to  powder !     Stony 

showers 
Of  that  ear-stunning  hail  of  Ares  crash 
Along  tiie  sounding  walls.    Above,  below, 
Shock  after  siiock,  the  song-built  towers 

and  gates 
Reel,  bruised  and  butted  with  tiic  shud- 
dering 
War-thunder   of   iron    rams  ;   and    from 

within 
The  city  comes  a  murmur  void  of  joy, 
Lest    she    be    taken   captive  —  maidens, 

wives. 
And  mothers  with  their  babblers  of  the 

dawn, 
And    oldest    age    in    shadow    from    the 

night, 
Falling  about  their  shrines  before   their 

Gods, 
And  wailing  "  Save  us." 

And  tliey  wail  to  thee  ! 
These  eyless  eyes,  that  cannot  see  thine 

own, 
See  this,  that  only  in  thy  virtue  lies 
The  saving  of  our  Thebes ;  for,  yester- 
night. 
To  me,  the  great  God  Ares,  whose  one 

bliss 
Ts  war,  and  human  sacrifice  —  himself 
B'l^od-red  from  battle,  spear  and  helmet 

tipt 
With  stormy  light  as  on  a  mast  at  sea, 
Stood    out    before    a    darkness,    crying 

"  Thebes, 
Thy  Thebes  shall  fall  and  perish,  for  I 

loatlie 
The  seed  of  Cadmus  —  yet  if  one  of  these 
By  his  own  hand  —  if  one  of  these  " 


My  son, 
No  sound  is  breathed  so  potent  to  coerce, 
And   to   conciliate,  as  their  names  who 

dare 
For  that  sweet  rnotlier  land  which  gave 

thtni  birth 
Nobly  to  do,  nobly  to  die.     Their  names. 
Graven    en    memorial    columns,   are    p 

song 
Heard  in  tlie  future  ;  few,  but  more  that 

wall 
And   rampart,  their    examples    reach  a 

hand 
Far  thro'  all  years,  and  everywhere  they 

meet 
And  kindle  generous   purpose,  and  the 

strength 
To  mould  it  into  action  pure  as  theirs. 
Fairer  thy  fate  than  mine,  if  life's  best 
I  end 

I  Be  to  end  well !  and  thou  refssing  this, 
j  Unvcnerable  will  thy  memory  be 
j  While  men  shall   moxe  the  lips  ;  but  if 

tiiou  dare  — 
!  Thou,  one  of  these,  the  race  of  Cadmus 
I  — tli(n 

No  stone  is  fitted  in  yon  marble  girth 
Whose  ei'ho  shall  not  tongue  thy  glorious 

doom. 
Nor  in  tliis  pavement  but  shall  ring  thy 

name 
To  every  hoof  that  clangs  it,   and   the 

springs 
Of  Diice  laving  yonder  battle-plain, 
Heard  from  the  roofs  by  night,  will  mur- 
mur thee 
To  thine  own  Thebes,  while  Thebes  thr#' 

thee  shall  stand 
Firm-based   witli  all  lier  Gods. 

The  Dragon's  cave 
Half   hid,  they  tell  me,  now  in    flowing 

vines  — 
Where   once    lie    dwelt   and    whence  he 

roU'd  himself 
At  dead  of  night  —  thou   knowest,  and 

that  smooth  rock 
Before  it,  altar-fashion'd  where  of  late 
The  woman-breasted  Sphinx,  with  wing& 

drawn  back. 
Folded    tier    lion    paws,   and    look'd    tc 

Thebes. 
There   blanch    the    bones   of   whom    she 

slew,  and  these 
Mixt   with    hfr    own,    because  the  tierce 

beast  found 
A  wiser  than  herself,  and  dash'd  herself 
Dead   in   lier   rage  :   but    thou  art  wise 

enough. 


672 


THE   WRECK. 


Tho'  young,  to  love  thy  wiser,  blunt  the 
curse 

Of  Pallas,  hear,  and   tho'   I   speak  the 
truth 

Believe  I  speak   it,  let  thine  own  hand 
strike 

Thy  youthful  pulses  into  rest  and  quench 

The   red    God's    anger,  fearing   not   to 
plunge 

Thy  torch  of  life  in  darkness,  rather  — 
thou 

Rejoicing  that  the  sun,   the  moon,    the 
stars 

Send  no   such   light    upon  the    ways  of 
men 

As  one  great  deed. 

Thither,  my  son,  and  tliera 

Thou,  that    hast   never   known  the   em- 
brace of  love, 

Offer  thy  maiden  life. 

This  useless  hand  ! 

I  felt  one  warm  tear  fall  upon  it.     Gone ! 

He  will  achieve  his  greatness. 

But  for  me, 

I  would   that  I  were    gather'd   to    my 
rest. 

And  mingled  with  the  famous   kings  of 
old. 

On  whom  about  their  ocean-islands  flash 

The  faces  of  the  Gods  —  the  wise  man's 
word, 

Here  trampled  by   the   i)opulacc  under- 
foot. 

There  crown'd  with  worship — and  these 
eyes  will  find 

The  men  I  knew,  and  watch  the  chariot 

•  whirl 

About  the  goal  again,  and  hunters  race 

The  shadowy  lion,  and  the  warrior-kings, 

In  height  and  prowess  more  than  human, 
strive 

Again  for  glory,  wliile  the  golden  lyre 

Is  ever  sounding  in  heroic  ears 

Heroic  hymns,  and  every  way  the  vales 

Wind,  clouded  with  the  grateful  incense- 
fume 

Of  those  who  mix  all  odor  to  the  Gods 

On   one   far   height   in    one   far-shining 
fire 


"  One  height  and  one  far  shinini:  fire  :  " 
And  while  I  fancied  that  my  friend 

For  tills  brief  idyll  would  require 
A  less  diffuse  and  opulent  end. 

And  would  defend  his  judgment  well, 
If  I  should  deem  it  over  nice  — 


The  tolling  of  his  funeral  bell 

Broke  on  my  Pagan  Paradise, 
And  mixt  the  dream  of  classic  times, 

And  all  the  phantoms  of  the  dream, 
With  present  grief,  and  made  the  rhyme^ 

That  miss'd  his  living  welcome,  seem 
Like  would-be  guests  an  hour  too  late, 

Who  down  tlie  highway  moving  on 
With  easy  laugliter  find  the  gate 

Is  bolted,  and  the  master  gone. 
Gone  into  darkness,  that  full  light 

Of  friendship  !  past,  in  sleep,  away 
By  night,  into  the  deeper  night ! 

The  deeper  night  ?     A  clearer  day 
Than  our  poor  twilight  dawn  on  earth  — • 

If  night,  what  barren  toil  to  be  ! 
AVhat  life,   so   maini'd    by   night,  were 
worth 

Our  living  out  1     Not  mine  to  me 
Remembering  all  the  golden  hours 

'Now  silent,  and  so  many  dead. 
And  him  the  last;  and  laying  flowers, 

This  wreath,  above  his  honor'd  head, 
And  praying  that,  when  I  from  hence 

Shall  fade  with  him  into  the  unknown, 
My  close  of  earth's  experience 

May  prove  as  peaceful  as  his  own. 


THE  WRECK. 


HfDE  me.  Mother !  my  Fathers  belong'd 

to  the  church  oiF  old, 
I  am  driven  by  storm  and  sin  and  death 

to  the  ancient  fold, 
I  cling  to  the  Catholic  Cross  once  more, 

to  the  Faith  that  saves. 
My  brain  is  full  of  tlie  crash  of  wrecks, 

and  the  roar  of  waves. 
My  life  itself  is  a  wreck,  I  liave  sullied  a 

noble  name, 
I  am  flung  from  the  rushing  tide  of  the 

world  as  a  waif  of  shame, 
I  am  roused  by  the  wail  of  a  child,  and 

awake  to  a  livid  light, 
And  a  ghastlier  face  than  ever  has  haunted 

a  grave  by  night, 
I  would  hide  from  the  storm  without,  I 

would  flee  from  the  storm  within, 
I  would  make  my  life  one  prayer  for  a 

soul  that  died  in  his  sin, 
I  was  the  tempter,  Mother,  and  mine  was 

the  deeper  fall ; 
I  will  sJt  at  your  feet,  I  will  hide  my  face, 

I  will  tell  vou  all. 


THE  WRECK. 


673 


He  that  they  gave  me  to,  Mother,  a  heed- 
less aud  iuuoceiit  bride  — 
I  never  have  wrouy'd  liis  heart,  I  have 

Duly  wmiuded  liis  pride  — 
Spain  in  his  bluuil  and  the  Jew dark- 

visaucd,  stately,  and  tall  — 
A  priucelier  -  looking;    nuiu    never   stept 

thro"  a  Prince's  hall. 
And  who,  when  his  anuer  was   kindled, 

would  venture  toyive  him  the  nay  ? 
Aud  a  man  meu  fear  is  a  man  to  be  loved 

by  the  women  they  say. 
And  I  could   have   loved   iiim  too,  if  the 

blossom  can  doat  on  the  blii:ht. 
Or  the  youuf^  green   leaf  rejoice   in  the 

frost  that  sears  it  at  uij^ht ; 
He  would  open   the   iiooks  that  I  prized, 

and  toss  them  away  with  a  yawn, 
Repell'd  liy  the    magnet  of   Art  to  the 

which  my  nature  was  drawn. 
The  word  of  the  I'oet  by  whom  the  deeps 

of  the  world  are  siirr"d, 
The  musii-  tliat  robes  it  in  language  be- 
neath and  beyond  the  word  ! 
My  Shelley  would  fall  from  my  hands 

when    he    cast    a    contemptuous 

glance 
From  where  he  was  poring  over  his  Tables 

of  Trade  and  Finance  ; 
My   hands,   when    I  heard  him  comins;, 

would  drop  from  the  cliords  or  the 

keys. 
But  ever  I  fail'd  to  please  him,  however 

I  strove  to  please  — 
All  day  long  far-off  in   the  cloud  of  the 

city,  and  there 
Lost,  head   and  heart,  in  the  chances  of 

dividend,  consol,  and  share  — 
And  at  home  if  I  sought  for  a  kindly 

caress,  being  woman  and  weak. 
His  formal  kiss  fell  chill  as   a  flake  of 

snow  on  the  cheek  : 
And  so,  when  I  Iiore  liini  a  girl,  when  I 

held  it  aloft  in  my  jov. 
He  look'd   at   it  coldly,  and   said  to  me 

"Pitv  it  isn't  a  boy." 
The  one  thing  given  me,  to  love  and  to 

live  for,  glanced  at  in  scorn  ! 
The  ch:ld  that  I  felt  I  could  die  for  —  as 

if  she  were  basely  born  ! 
I  had  lived  a  M'ild  flower  life,  I  was  planted 

now  in  a  tomb  ; 
The  daisy  will  shut  to  the  shadow  I  closed 

my  lieart  to  the  gloom  ; 
I  threw  myself  all  abroad  —  I  would  play 

my  jjart  with  the  young 


By  the  low  foot-lights  of  the  world  —  aud 
1  caught  the  wreath  that  was  flung. 


Mother,   I   have    not   —   howevei    their 

tongues  may  have  babbled  of  me  — 
Sinu'd  thro' an  animal  vileness,  for  all  but 

a  dwarf  was  he, 
And    all    but    a    hunchback    too;    and   I 

look'd  at  him,  first,  askance 
With   pity  —  not   he    the    knight  for  at 

amorous  girl's  romance  ! 
Tho'  wealthy  enough  to   have  bask'd  in 

the  light  of  a  dowerless  smile. 
Having  lands  at  home  and  abroad  in  a 

rich  West-Indian  isle; 
But  I  came  on  him  once  at  a  ball,  the 

heart  of  a  listening  crowd  — 
Why,  what   a  brow  was  there  !  he  was 

seated  —  speaking  aloiul 
To  women,  tiie  flower  of  the  time,  and 

men  at  the  helm  of  state  — 
Flowing  with  easy  greatness  aud  touching 

on  all  things  great, — 
Science,  philosophy,    soug  —  till    I   felt 

m}self  ready  to  weep 
For  I  knew  not  what,  when  I  heard  that 

voice,  —  as  n)ellow  and  deeji 
As  a  psalm  by  a  mighty  master  and  peal'd 

from  an  organ,  —  roll 
Rising   and    falling  —  for,  Mother,   the 

voice  was  the  voice  of  the  soul ; 
And  the  sun  of  the  soul  made  day  in  the 

dark  of  his  wonderful  eyes 
Here  was  the  band  that  would  help  me. 

would  heal  me  —  the    heart  thak 

was  wise  ! 
And  he,  poor  man,  \\hen  he  learnt  that 

1  hated  the  ring  I  wore. 
He  helpt  me  with  death,  and  he  heal  J 

me  with  sorrow  for  evermore. 


For  I   broke   the    bond.     That    day    my 

nurse  had  brought  nie  the  child. 
The  small  sweet  face  was  flush'd.  but  i' 

coo'd  to  the  Mother  and  smiled. 
"Anything  ailimr,"  I  ask'd   her,   "with 

baby  ?  "     She  shook  her  head. 
And  the  Motherless  Mother  kiss'd  it,  and 

turu'd  in  her  haste  aud  fled. 


Low  v/arm  winds  liad  irently  breathed  H3 
away  from  the  laud  — 


674 


THE   WRECK. 


Tfen  long  sweet  summer  days  upon  deck, 

sitting  hand  in  hand  — 
When  he  cluthed  a  naked  mind  with  the 

wisdom  and  wealth  of  his  own, 
And  I  bow'd  myself  down  as  a  slave  to 

his  intellectual  tlirone, 
When  he  coin'd  into  English  gold  some 

treasure  of  classical  song. 
When  he  flouted  a  statesman's  error,  or 

fliimed  at  a  public  wrong. 
When  he  rose  as  it  were  on  the  wings  of 

an  eagle  beyond  me,  and  past 
Over  the  range  and   the  cluuige  of  the 

world  from  the  first  to  the  last. 
When  he  spoke  of  his  tropica)   home  in 

the  canes  by  tiie  inirple  fide, 
And  the  high  star-crowns  of  his  jialins  on 

the  deep-«ootle<i  mountain-side. 
And  cliffs  all  robed  iu  lianas  that  dropt 

to  the  brink  of  his  bay, 
And  trees  like  the  towers  of  a  minster, 

the  sons  of  a  winterless  day. 
"Paradise    there!"    so   he   said,   ])ut    I 

seem'd  iu  Paradise  ihen 
With  the  first  great  love  I  had  felt  for 

the  first  and  greatest  of  men, 
Ten  long  days  of  summer  and  sin  —  if  it 

must  be  so  — 
But  days  of  a  larger  Ught  than   I  ever 

again  sliall  know  — 
Days  that  will  glimmer.  I  fear,  tliro'  life 

to  my  latest  breath  ; 
"  No  frost  there,"  so  he  saitl,  "  as  in  truest 

Love  no  Death," 


Mother,  one  morning  a  bird  with  a  warble 

plaintively  sweet 
Perch'd    on    the   shrouds,   and  then    fell 

fluttering  down  at  my  feet ; 
I  took  it,  he   made  it  a  cage,  we  fondled 

it,  Stephen  and  I, 
•But  it  died,  and  I  thought  of  the  child 

for  a  moment,  I  scarce  know  why. 


But  if  sin  be  sin,  not    inherited  fate,  as 

many  will  say, 
My  sin  to  my  desolate  little  one  found  me 

at  sea  on  a  day. 
When  her  orphan  wail  came  borne  in  the 

shriek  of  a  growing  wind, 
And  a  voice  rang  out  in  the  thunders  of 

Ocean    and   Heaven   "  Thou   hast 

sinn'd." 


And  down  in  the  cabin  were  we,  for  the 

towering  crest  of  the  tides 
Plunged  on  the  vessel    and    swept  in  a 

cataract  off  from  her  sides, 
And  ever  the  great  storm  grew  with  a 

howl  and  a  boot  of  the  blast 
In  the  rigging,  voices  of  hell  —  then  came 

the  crash  of  tiie  mast. 
"  The  wages  of  sin  is  death,"  and  then  3 

began  to  weep. 
"  I  am  the  Jonah,  the  crew  should  cast 

me  into  tiie  deep. 
For  ah  God,  what  a  heart  was  mine  to 

for.sake  her  even  for  you." 
"  Never  the  heart  among  women,"  he  said, 

"  more  teniler  and  true." 
"  The  heart !  not  a  mother's  heart,  when 

I  left  my  darling  alone." 
"Comfort  y(uirself,  for  the  heart  of  the 

fatiicr  will  care  for  his  own." 
"  The  he;irt  of  the  father  will  spurn  her," 

I  cried,  "  for  tiie  sin  of  the  wife, 
The   cloud  of  the   mother's   shame  will 

enf'iild  her  and  darken  her  life." 
Then  his  jir.le  face  twitch'd;  "O  Stephen, 

1  love  you,  I  love  you,  and  yet"  — 
As  I  lean'd  away  from  his  arms  —  "  would 

God,  we  had  never  met!  " 
And  he  spoke  not  —  only  the  storm;  till 

after  a  little,  I  yearn 'd 
For  his  voice  again,  and  he  call'd  to  me 

"  Kiss   me  !  "    and   there  —  as   I 

turn'd  — 
"  The  heart,  the  heart !  "   1  kiss'd  him,  I 

clung  to  the  sinking  form. 
And   the  storm  went  roaring  above  us, 

and  he  —  was  out  of  tlie  storm. 


Aud  then,  then,  Mother,  the  ship  stag- 

ger'd  under  a  thunderous  shock. 
That  shook  us   asunder,   as   if  she  had 

struck  and  crash 'd  on  a  rock  ; 
For  a  huge  sea  smote  every  soul  from  the 

decks  of  The  Falcon  but  one ; 
All  of  them,  all   but  the  man  that  was 

lasb'd  to  the  helm  had  gone  ; 
And  I  fell  —  and  the  storm  and  the  days 

went  by,  but  I  knew  no  more  — 
Lost  myself  — lay  like  the  dead  by  the 

dead  on  the  cabin  floor, 
Dead  to  the  death  beside  me,  and  lost  to 

the  loss  that  was  mine. 
With  a  dim  dream,  now  and  then,  of  3 

hand  givinir  bread  and  wine, 
Till  I  woke  from  the  trance,  and  the  ship 

stood  still,  and  the  skies  were  blue, 


THE   ANCIENT   SAGE. 


676 


But  tho  face  I  had  known,  O  Mother,  was 
not  the  face  tiiat  I  knew. 


The  3tran2e  misfeatui-intr  mask  that  I  saw 

so  amazed  me,  tliat  I 
Stumbled  on  deck,  half  mad.     I  would 

fling  myself  over  and  die  ! 
But  one  —  he  wms  waving  a  flag  —  the 

one  man  left  on  the  wreck  — 
'  Woman  "  —  he  graspt  at   my   arm  — 

"stay  there"  —  I  croucii'd  on  the 

deck  — 
"We  are  sinking,  and  yet  there's  hope: 

look  yonder,"  he  cried,  '■  a  sail," 
In  a  tone  so  rough  that  I  hroke  into  pas- 
sionate tears,  and  the  wail 
Of  a  beaten  babe,  till  I  saw  that  a  boat 

was  nearing  us  —  then 
All  on  a  suilden  I  thought,  I  shall  look  on 

the  ciiild  atrain. 


They  lower'd   me   down   the   side,   and 

there  in  the  boat  I  lay 
With  sad  eyes  fixt  on  the  lost  sea-home, 

as  we  glided  away. 
And  I  sigli'd,  as  the  low  dark  hull  dipt 

under  the  smiling  main, 
"Had  I  stay'd  with  liim,  I  had   now  — 

with  him  —  been  out  of  ray  pain." 


They  took  us  aboard :  the  crew  were 
gentle,  the  captain  kind  ; 

But  I  was  the  lonely  slave  of  an  often- 
wandering  mind  ; 

For  whenever  a  rougher  gust  might 
tumble  a  stormier  wave, 

"  O  Stephen,"  I  moan'd,  "  I  am  coming  to 
thee  in  tliinc  ()cean-grave." 

And  again,  when  a  balmier  breeze  curl'd 
over  a  peacef uUer  sea, 

I  found  myself  moaning  again  "  0  child, 
I  am  coming  to  thee." 


The  broad  white  brow  of  the  Isle — that 
bay  with  the  color'd  sand  — 

Rich  was  the  rose  of  sunset  there,  as  we 
drew  to  the  land  ; 

Ail  so  quiet  the  ripple  would  hardly 
blanch  into  spray 


At  the  feet  of  the  cliif ;  and  I  pray'd  — 

"  my   child  "  —  for   I   still   could 

pray  — 
"May  her  life  be  as  blissfully  calm,  be 

never  gloom'd  by  the  curse 
Of  a  sin,  not  hers  !  " 

Was  it  well  with  the  child  ? 

1  wrote  to  the  nurse 
Who  had  borne  my  flower  on  her  hireling 

heart ;  and  an  answer  came 
Not  from  the  nurse  —  nor  yet  to  the  wife 

—  to  her  maiden  name  ! 
I  shook  as  I  opeu'd  the  letter  —  I  knew 

that  hand  too  well  — 
And  from  it  a  scrap,  clipt   out   of   the 

"  deaths"  in  a  paper,  fell. 
"  Ten  long  sweet  summer  days  "  of  fever, 

and  want  of  care  ! 
And  gone  —  that  day  of  the  storm  — O 

Mother,  she  came  to  me  there. 


THE  ANCIENT  SAGE. 

A  THOUSAND   summers  ere  the  time  of 

Christ 
From  out  his  ancient  city  came  a  Seer 
Whom  one  that  loved,  and  honor'd  him, 

and  yet 
Wns  no  disciple,  richly  garb'd,  but  worn 
From  wasteful  living,  foUow'd  —  in  his 

hand 
A   scroll   of   verse  —  till    that   old   man 

before 
A   cavern   whence   an   affluent  fountain 

pour'd 
From  darkness  into  daylight,  turn'd  and 

spoke. 

This  wealth  of  waters  might  but  seem  to 

draw 
From  yon  dark  cave,  but,  son,  the  source 

is  higher, 
Yon   summit  half-a-league  in  air  —  and 

higher, 
The  cloud  that  hides  it  —  higher  still,  the 

. heavens 
Whereby   the  cloud   was   moulded,   and 

whercout 
The  cloud  descended.     Force  is  from  the 

heights. 
I  am  wearied  of  our  city,  son,  and  go 
To  sjiend   my  one   last  year  among  the 

hills. 
What  hast  thou  there  1     Some  deathsong 

for  the  Glmuls 
To  make  their  banquet  relisti  .'     let  mo 

read. 


676 


THE   ANCIENT   SAGE. 


•'  How  far  thro'  all  the  bloom  and  brake 

That  nightingale  is  heard ! 
What  power  but  the  bird's  could  make 

This  music  in  the  bird  1 
How  summer  bright  are  yonder  skies, 

And  earth  as  fair  in  hue  ! 
And  yet  what  sign  of  auglit  that  lies 

Behind  the  green  and  blue  ? 
But  mun  to-day  is  fancy's  fool 

As  man  hath  ever  been. 
The  nameless  Power,  or  Powers,  that  rule 

Were  never  heard  or  seen." 

If  thou  would'st  hear  the  Nameless,  and 

■wilt  dive 
Into  the  Temple-cave  of  thine  own  self. 
There,  brooding  by  the  central  altar,  thou 
May'st  haply  learn  the  Nameless  hath  a 

voice. 
By  which  thou  wilt  abide,  if  thou  be  wise, 
As  if  thou  knewest,  tho'  thou  canst  not 

know ; 
For  Knowledge  is  the  swallow  on  the  lake 
That  sees  and  stirs  the   surface-shadow 

there 
But  never  yet  hath  dijjt  into  the  abysm, 
The    Abysm    of    all   Abysms,    beneath, 

within 
The  blue  of  sky  and  sea,  the  green  of 

earth. 
And  in  the  million-millionth  of  a  grain 
Which  cleft  an";  cleft  agp.in  for  evermore. 
And  ever  vanishing,  neyer  vanishes. 
To  me,  my  son,  more  mystic  than  myseif. 
Or  even  than  the  Nameless  is  to  me. 
And  when  thou  sendest  thy  free  soul 

thro'  heaven. 
Nor  understandest  bound  nor  boundless- 
ness, 
Thou  seest  the  Nameless  of  the  hundred 

names. 
And  if  the  Nameless  should  withdraw 

from  all 
Thy   frailty   counts   most    real,   all   thy 

world 
Might   vanish   like   thy   shadow   in    the 

dark 

"^  And   since    —  from    when    this   earth 
began   - 
The  Nameless  never  came 
Among  us,  never  spake  with  man, 
And  never  named  the  Name  "  — 

Thou  canst  not  prove  the  Nameless,  O 

my  son. 
Nor   canst  tliou   prove   the   world   thou 

roovest  in, 


Thou  canst  not  prove  that  thou  art  body 

alone. 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  spirit 

alone. 
Nor  canst  thou  prove  that  thou  art  both 

in  one : 
Thou  canst  not  prove  thou  ait  immortal, 

no 
Nor  yet  that  thou  art  mortal  —  nay  my 

son. 
Thou  canst  not  prove  that  I,  who  speak 

with  thee. 
Am  not  thyself  in  converse  with  thyself, 
For    nothing    worthy    ))roviug    can     be 

proven, 
Nor  yet   disproven  :   wherefore    thou  be 

wise. 
Cleave  ever  to  the  sunnier  side  of  doubt, 
And  cling  to  Faith  beyond  the  forms  of 

Faith  ! 
She    reels   not   in  the  storm  of  warring 

words. 
She  brightens  at  the  clash  of  "  Yes  "  and 

"No," 
She  sees  the  Best  that  glimmers  thro'  the 

Worst, 
She  i'eels  the  Sun  is  hid  but  for  a  night. 
She   spies  the   summer  thro'  the  winter 

bud. 
She  tastes  the   fruit  before  the  blossom 

falls. 
She  hears  the  lark  within  the  songlessegg, 
She  finds  the  fountain  where  they  wail'd 

"  Mirage  " ! 

"  What  Power  ?  aught  akin  to  Mind, 

The  mind  in  me  and  you  ? 
Or  power  as  of  the  Gods  gone  blind 

Who  see  not  what  they  do  ?  " 

But  some  in  yonder  city  hold,  my  son, 
That   none   but    Gods    could   build   thii- 

house  of  ours, 
So  beautiful,  vast,  various,  so  beyond 
All  work  of  man,  yet,   like  all  work  of 

man, 
A  beauty  with  defect till  That  which 

knows, 
And  is  not  known,  but  felt  thro'  what  we 

feel 
Within  ourselves  is  highest,  shall  descend 
On  this  half-deed,  and  .=hape  it  at  the  last 
According  to  the  Highest  in  the  Highest 

"  What  Power  but  the  Years  that  make 

And  break  the  vase  of  clay. 
And  stir  the  sieeping  earth,  and  wake 

The  bloom  that  fades  away  1 


THE   ANCIENT  SAGE. 


i5Ti 


What  rulers  but  the  Days  and  Hours 

That  cancel  ■.veal  with  woe, 
And  wind  the  front  of  youth  with  flowers, 

And  cap  our  age  with  snow  ?  " 

The  days  and  hours  are  ever  glancing 

And  seem  to  flicker  past  thro'  sun  and 

shade, 
Or  short,  or  long,  as  Pleasure  leads,  or 

Pain ; 
But  with  the  Nameless  is  nor  Dav  nor 

Hour ; 
Tho'  we,   thin   minds,   who   creep   from 

thought  to  tliought 
Break  into  "  Thens  "  and  "  Whens  "  the 

Eternal  Now  : 
This     double     seeming    of     the     single 

world  !  — 
My  words  are  like   the    babblings   in  a 

dream 
Of  nightmare,  when  the  babblings  break 

the  dream. 
But  thou  be  wise  in  this  dream-world  of 

ours, 
Nor  take  thy  dial  for  thy  deity. 
But  make  the  passing  shadow  serve  thy 

will. 

"The  years  that  made  the  stripling  wise 

Undo  tlieir  work  again. 
And  leave  him,  blind  (if  heart  p,nd  eyes, 

The  last  and  least  of  men  ; 
Who  clings   to   earth,   and    once   would 
dare 

Hell-heat  or  Arctic  cold. 
And  now  one  breath  of  cooler  air 

Would  loofe  him  from  his  hold  ; 
His  winter  chills  him  to  the  root. 

He  withers  marrow  and  mind  ; 
The  kernel  of  tlic  shrivell'd  fruit 

Is  jutting  thro'  the  rind  ; 
The  tiger  spasms  tear  his  chest, 

The  palsy  wags  his  head  ; 
The  wife,  the  sons,  who  love  him  best 

Would  fain  that  he  were  dead  ; 
The  griefs  by  wliieh  he    once  was  wrung 

Were  never  worth  the  while  "  — 

Who  knows  ?  or  whether  this  earth-nar- 
row life 

Be  vet  but  yolk,  and  forming  in  the 
shell? 

"  The  shaft  of  scorn  that  once  had  stung 
But  wakes  a  dotard  smile.' 

The  placid  gleam  of  sunset  after  storm  ! 


"  The  statesman's  brain  that  sway'd  the 
past 

Is  feebler  than  his  knees  ; 
The  passive  sailor  wrecks,  at  last 

In  ever-silent  seas ; 
The  warrior  hath  forgot  his  arms. 

The  Learned  all  his  lore  ; 
The  changing  market  frets  or  charms 

The  merchant's  hope  no  more; 
The  prophet's  beacon  buvn'd  in  vain, 

And  now  is  lost  in  cloud  ; 
The  ploughman  ])asses,  bent  with  pain, 

To  mix  with  what  he  plough'd  ; 
The  poet  whom  his  Age  would  quote 

As  heir  of  endless  fame  — 
He  knows  not  ev'n  the  book  he  wrote, 

Not  even  his  own  name. 
For  man  has  overlived  his  day, 

And,  darkening  in  tho  light, 
Scarce  feels  the  senses  break  away 

To  mix  with  ancient  Night." 

The  shell  must  break  before  the  bird  can 

fly- 

"  The  years  that  when  my  Youth  began 

Had  set  the  lily  and  rose 
By  all  my  ways  where'er  they  ran. 

Have  ended  mortal  foes ; 
My  rose  of  love  for  ever  gone, 

My  iily  of  trutii  and  trust  — 
They  made  her  lily  and  rose  in  one, 

And  changed  lur  into  dust. 
0  rose-tree  planted  in  my  grief. 

And  growing,  on  her  tomb. 
Her  dust  is  greening  in  your  leaf, 

Her  blood  is  in  your  bloom. 
O  slender  lily  waving  there. 

And  laughing  back  the  light. 
In  vain  yon  tell  me  '  Earth  is  fair,' 

When  all  is  dark  as  night." 

My  son,   the    world    is    dark  with    griefs 

and  graves. 
So   dark    that    men  cry  out  against   the 

Heavens. 
Who  knows  but  that  tlie  darkness  is  ir 

man  7 
The  doors  of  Night  may  be  the  gates  of 

Light ; 
For  wert  thou  born  or  blind  or  deaf,  and 

then 
Suddenly  heal'd,  how  would'st  tliou  glory 

in  all 
The    splendors    and    the    voices    of    the 

world  ! 
And  we,  the  poor  earth's  dying  race,  and 

yet 


«78 


THE  ANCIENT   SAGE. 


Nc  phantoms,  watching  from  a  pliautom 

shore 
Await  the  last  and  largest  sense  to  make 
The  phantom  walls  of  this  illusion  fade, 
And  show  us  that   the  world   is  wholly 

fair. 

"'  But  vain  the  tears  for  darken'd  years' 

Aslaugliter  over  wine, 
And  vain  the  laughter  as  the  tears, 

O  brotiier,  mine  or  thine, 
For  all  that  laugh,  and  all  that  weep, 

And  all  that  breathe  are  one 
Slight  ripple  on  the  boundless  deep 

That  moves,  and  all  is  gone." 

But  that  one   ripple  on   the    boundless 

deep 
Feels   that   the   deep  is   boundless,  and 

itself 
For  ever  changing  form,  but  evermore 
One  with  the  boundless   motion  of   the 

deep. 

"  Yet  wine  and  laughter  fiiends  !  and  set 

The  lamps  alight,  and  call 
For  golden  music,  and  forget 

The  darkness  of  the  pall." 

If  utter  darkness  closed  the  day,  my 
son 

But  earth's  dark  forehead  flings  athwart 
the  heavens 

Her  shadow  crown'd  with  stars  —  and 
yonder  —  out 

To  northward  —  some  that  never  set,  hut 
pass 

From  sight  and  night  to  lose  themselves 
in  day. 

I  hate  the  black  negation  of  the  bier. 

And  wish  the  dead,  as  happier  than  our- 
selves 

And  higher,  having  climb'd  one  step  be- 
yond 

Our  village  miseries,  might  be  borne  in 
white 

To  burial  or  to  burning,  hymn'd  from 
hence 

With  songs  in  praise  of  death,  and 
crown'd  with  flowers  ! 

"  O  worms  and  maggots  of  to  day 
Without  their  hope  of  wings  !  " 

But  louder  than    thy  rhyme   the  silent 

Word 
Of  that  world  -  prophet  in  the  heart  of 

man. 


"  Tho'  some  have  gleams  or  so  they  say 
Of  more  than  mortal  things." 

To-day  ?  but  what  of  yesterday  ?  for  oft 
Ou  me,  when  boy,  there  came  what  then 

I  caird, 
Who  knew  no  books  and  no  philosophies, 
In  my  bov-phrase  "  The  Passion  of  the 

Pas't." 
The  first  gray  streak  of  earliest  sumuier- 

dawn. 
The  last  long  stripe  of  waning  crimson 

gloom. 
As  if  the  late  and  early  were  but  one  — 
A  height,  a  broken  grange,  a  grove,  a 

flower 
Had  murnuirs   "Lost  and  gone  and  lost 

and  gone  !  " 
A  breath,  a  whisper — some  divine  fare- 
well- 
Desolate  sweetness  —  far  and  faraway  — 
What  had  he  loved,  what  had   he   jost, 

the  boy  ? 
I  know  not  and  I  speak  of  what  has  been. 
And    more,    my   sou !   for    more    tlian 

once  when  I 
Sat  all  alone,  revolving  in  myself 
The  word  that  is  the  symbol  of  myself, 
The  mortal  limit  of  the  Self  was  loosed, 
And  past  into  the  Nameless,  as  a  cloud 
Melts  into  Heaven.     I  touch'd  my  limbs, 

the  limbs 
Were   strange   not   mine  —  and   yet   no 

shade  of  doubt, 
But  utter  clearness,  and  thro'  loss  of  Self 
The  gain  of  such  large   life  as  match'd 

with  ours 
Were  Snn   to   spark  —  unshadowable  in 

words. 
Themselves  but   shadows   of  a   shadow. 

world. 

"And  idle  gleams  will  come  and  go. 
But  still  the  clouds  remain  ;  " 

The   clouds  themselves   are   children   of 
the  Sun. 

"  And  NiL'ht  and  Shadow  rule  below 
When  only  Day  should  reign." 

And  Day  and  Night  are  children  of  the 

Sun, 
And  idle  gleams  to  thee  are  light  to  ma 
Some  sav,  the  Light  was  father  of   the 

Night, 
And  some,  the  Night  was  father  of  the 

Light. 


THE  FLIGHT. 


679 


No  night  no  day !  —  I  touch  thy  world 

iigaiu  — 
No  ill  no  good!  such  counter-terms,  my 

sou. 
Are  border-races,  holdiug,  each  its  owu 
By    eudle^s   war;   but    uiglit   euough   is 

there 
In  you  dark  city :   get   tiiee   back :  and 

since 
The  key  to  that  weird  casket,  which  for 

thee 
But  holds  a  skull,  is  neither  thiue  nor 

niiue, 
But  in  the  hand  of  what  is  more  than 

man. 
Or  in   man's   hand   when   man   is  more 

than  m:in, 
Let  be  thy  wail  and  lulp  tliy  fellow-meu, 
And  make  thv  gold  thv  vassal  not  tliv 

king, 
And   fling  free   alms   iuto    the   beggar  s 

bowl. 
And   send   the    day   iuto    the    darken'd 

heart ; 
Nor  list  for  guerdon  in  tlie  voice  of  men, 
A  dying  echo  from  a  falliug  wall ; 
Nor  care  —  for   Hunger   hath    the   Evil 

eye  — 
To  vex  the  noon  with  fiery  gems,  or  fold 
Thy  presence  in  the  silk  of  sumptuous 

looms  ; 
Nor    roll    thy     viands    on     a    luscious 

tongue, 
Nor  drown  thyself  with  flies  in  honied 

wine ; 
Nor  tlion  be  rageful,  like  a  handled  bee, 
And  lose  thy  life  by  usage  of  thy  sting  ; 
Nor  harm    an  adder   thro'  the   lust  for 

harm, 
Nor  make  a  snail's  horn  shrink  for  wan- 
tonness , 
And   more — think   well!     Do-well   will 

follow  thought, 
And  in  the  fatal  sequence  of  tliis  world 
An  evil  thought  may  soil  thy  children's 

blood  ;' 
But  curb  the  beast  would  cast  thee  in  the 

mire, 
And  leave  the  hot  swamp  of  voluptuous- 
ness 
A  cloud  between  the  Nameless  and  thy- 
self. 
And  lay   thine    uphill    shoulder   to  the 

wheel, 
And  climb  the  Mount  of  Blessing,  whence, 

if  thou 
Look   higher,  then  —  perchance  —  thoa 

mayest  —  beyoud 


A  hundred  ever-rising  mountain  lines, 
And  past  the  range  of  Night  and  Shadow 

—  see 
The   high-heaveu    dawn   of    more    than 

mortal  day 
Strike  on  the  Mount  of  Vision ! 

So,  farewelL 


THE  FLIGHT. 


Are  you  sleeping  1  have  you  forgotten  ? 

do  not  sleep,  my  sister  dear  ! 
How  can  you  sleep  i  the  moruiug  brings 

the  day  I  hate  and  fear ; 
The  cock  has  crow-'d   already   once,   he 

crows  before  his  time  ; 
Awake  !  the  creeping  glimmer  steals,  the 

hills  are  white  with  rime. 


Ah,  clasp  me  in  your  arms,  sister,  ah,  fold 

me  to  your  breast ! 
Ah,  let  me  weep  my  fill  once  more,  and 

cry  myself  to  rest ! 
To  rest  /  to  rest  and  wake  no  more  were 

better  rest  for  me, 
Than  to  waken  every   morning  to  that 

face  I  loathe  to  see : 


I  envied  your  sweet  slumber,  all  night  so 

calm  yon  lay, 
The  niglit  was  calm,  the  morn  is  calm, 

and  like  another  day  ; 
But  I  could  wish  yon  moaning  sea  would 

rise  and  burst  the  shore, 
And  such  a  whirlwind  blow  these  woods, 

as  never  blew  before. 


For,  one  by  one,  the  stars  went  down 

across  the  gleaming  pane, 
And  project  after  project  rose,  and  all  of 

thc^m  were  vain  ; 
The  blackthorn-blossom  fades  and  falls 

and  leaves  the  bitter  sloe. 
The  hope  I  catch  at  vanishes  and  youth 

is  turn'd  to  woe. 


680 


THE  FLIGHT. 


V. 

Come,  speak  a  little  comfort  f  ail  night  I 

pray'tl  wiili  tear?, 
And  yet  no  comfort  came  to  me,  and  now 

the  moru  appears, 
When  he  will  tear  me  from  your  side,  who 

bought  me  for  his  slave : 
This  faihiT  pays   his  debt  with  me,  aud 

weds  me  to  my  grave. 


What  father,  this  or  mine,  was  he,  who, 

on  tliat  summer  day 
When  1  had  fall'ii  from  off  the  crag  we 

clamber'd  up  iu  play, 
Found,  fear'd  me  dead,  aud  groau'd,  aud 

took  and  kiss  J  me,  aud  again 
He  kiss'd  me  ;  aud  I  loved  him  theu  ;  he 

was  my  father  then. 


No  father  now,  the    tyrant  vassal   of  a 

tyrant  vice  ! 
The  Godless  Jephtha  vows  his  child  .  .  . 

to  one  cast  of  the  dice. 
These  ancient  woods,  this  Hall  at  last  will 

go  —  perhaps  have  gone, 
Except  his  own  meek  daughter  yield  her 

life,  heart,  soul  to  one  — 


To  one  who  knows  I  scorn  him.     O  the 

formal  mocking  bow, 
The  cruel  smile,  the  courtly  phrase  that 

masks  his  malice  now  — 
But  often  iu  the  sidelong  eyes  a  gleam  of 

all  thiups  ill  — 
It  is  not  Love  but  Hate  that  weds  a  bride 

agaiust  her  will ; 


Hate,  that  would   pluck  from  this  true 

breast  the  locket  that  I  wear, 
The  precious  crystal  into  which  I  braided 

Edwin's  hair ! 
The  love  that  keeps  this  heart  alive  beats 

on  it  night  and  day  — 
One  golden  curl,  his  golden  gift,  before 

he  past  away. 


He  left  us  weeping  in  the  woods ;  his 

boat  was  on  the  sand  ; 
How  slowly  down  the  rocks  he  went,  how 

loth  to  quit  the  land  ! 
And  all  my  life  was  darken'd,  as  I  saw 

the  white  sail  run. 
And  darken,  up  that  lane  of  light  into  the 

setting  sun. 


How  often  have  we  watch'd  the  sun  fade 

from  us  thro'  the  West, 
Aud  follow  Edwin  to  those  isles,  those 

islands  of  the  Blest ! 
Is  he  not  there  7  would  I  were  there,  the 

friend,  the  bride,  the  wife, 
With  him,  where  summer  never  dies,  with 

Love,  the  Sun  of  life! 


O  would  I  were  in  Edwin's  arms  —  once 

more  —  to  feel  his  breath 
Upon  my  cheek  —  on  Edwin's  ship,  with 

Edwin,  ev'n  in  death, 
Tho'  all  about  the  shuddering  wreck  the 

death-white  sea  should  rave. 
Or  if  lip  were  laid  to  lip  on  the  pillows  of 

the  wave. 


Shall  I  take  him  ?     I  kneel  with  him  ?    I 

swear  and  swear  forsworn 
To  love  him  most,  whom  most  I  loathe, 

to  I'.ouor  whom  I  scorn  ? 
The  Eiend  would  yell,  the  grave  would 

vawn,   my  mother's  ghost   would 

rise  — 
To  lie,  to  lie — in  God's  own  house  —  the 

blackest  of  all  lies 


XIV. 

"Why  —  rather  than  that  hand  in  mine, 

tho'  every  pulse  would  freeze, 
I  'd   sooner  fold   an  icy  corpse   dead  of 

some  foul  disease  : 
Wed  him  ?     I  will  uot  wed  him,  let  them 

spurn  me  from  tlie  doors. 
And  I  will  wander  till  I  die  about  the 

barren  moors. 


THE  FLIGHT. 


681 


XV. 

The  dear,   mad  bride  who  stabb'd  her 

bridegroom  ou  her  bridal  niiiht  — 
If  mad,  then  I  am  mad,  but  saue,  if  slie 

were  in  the  right. 
My  father's  madness  malces  nie  mad  — 

but  words  arc  only  words  ! 
lam  not  mad,  not  yet,  not  quite  —  There! 

listen  how  the  birds 


Begin  to  warble  yonder  in  the  budding 

orcharil  trees ! 
The  lark  has  past  from  carih  to  heaven 

upon  the  morning  breeze  ! 
How  gladly,  were  I  one  of   those,    how 

early  would  I  wake  ! 
And  yet  the  soitow  that  I  bear  is  sorrow 

for  his  sake. 


They  love  their   mates,   to   whom  they 

sing;    or   else     their    songs,    that 

meet 
The   morning   with   such    music,   would 

never  be  so  sweet! 
And  tho'  these  fatliers  will  not  hear,  the 

blessed  Heavens  are  just, 
And  Love  is  tire,  and  burns  tiie  feet  would 

trample  it  to  dust. 


A  door  was  open'd  in  the  house  — who  1 

who  ?  my  fat  lie  r  sleeps  ! 
A  stealthy   foot   upon   the   stair !  he  — 

some  one  —  this  way  creeps  ! 
If  he?  yes,  he  .  .  .  lurks,  listens,   fears 

his  victim  may  have  fled  — 
He!  where  is  some  sharp-pointed  thing  ? 

he  comes,  and  finds  me  dead. 


Not  he,  not  yec  !  and  time  to  act  —  but 

how  my  temples  burn  \ 
And  idle  fancies  flutter   me,  I  know  not 

where  to  turn  ; 
Speak   to   me,   sister ;  counsel   me  ;  this 

marriage  must  not  be. 
You  only  know  the  love  that  makes  the 

world  a  world  to  me  ! 


Our  gentle  mother,  bad  she  lived  —  but 

we  were  left  alone  : 
Tiiat  other  left  us  tu  ourselvet; ;  he  cared 

not  for  his  own  ; 
So  all   the  summer  long   we  roain'd  ic 

these  wild  woods  of  ours. 
My  Edwin   loved    to   call    us  thou  "  Hi* 

two  wild  woodland  flowers,' 


Wild    flowers   blowing  side    by   side  in 

God's  free  light  and  air. 
Wild  flowers  of  the  secret  woods,  when 

Edwin  found  us  there, 
Wild  woods  in  wiiich  we  roved  with  him, 

and  heard  his  passionate  vow. 
Wild  woods  in  which  we  rove  no  more,  if 

we  be  parted  now ! 


You  will  not  leave  me  thus  in  grief  to 

wander  forth  forlorn ; 
We  never  changed  a  bitter  word,  not  one 

since  we  were  born  ; 
Our  dying  mother  join'd  our  hands  ;  she 

knew  this  father  well  ; 
She  bade  us  love,  like  souls  in  heaven,  and 

now  I  fly  from  hell. 


And   you   with  me ;  and  we  shall  light 

upon  some  lonely  shore. 
Some  lodge  within  the  waste  sefi-dunes, 

and  hear  the  waters  roar. 
And  see  the  ships   from  out  the  West  go 

dipping  thro'  the  foam. 
And  sunshine  on    that  sail  at  last  which 

brings  our  Edwin  liome. 


But  look,  the  morinng  grows  apace,  and 

lights  the  old  church-tower. 
And  lights   the    clock  !  the    hand  points 

five   —   O    me   —  it   strikes    the 

hour  — 
I  bide  no  more,  I  meet  my  fate,  whatever 

ills  betide  ? 
Arise,  my  own  true  sister,  come  forth ' 

the  world  is  wide. 


682 


TO-MORROW. 


And  yet  my  heart  is  ill  at  ease,  my  eyes 

are  dim  with  dew, 
I  seem  to  see  a  new-dug  grave  up  yonder 

by  the  yew  ! 
If   we   should    uever   more    return,   but 

wander  liaud  iu  hand 
With  breaking  liearts,  without  a  friend, 

and  iu  a  distant  land. 


O  sweet,  they  tt'll  me  that  tlie  world  is 

hard,  and  harsh  of  mind, 
But  can  it  he  so  hard,  so  liarsh,  as  those 

that  should  be  kiud  ? 
That  matters  not:  let   come  what  will; 

at  last  the  end  is  sure, 
And  every  heart  that  loves  with  truth  is 

equal  to  endure. 


TO-MORROW. 


Her,  that  yer  Honor  was  spa  kin'  to  ? 

Whin,  yer  Honor  ^  last  year  — 
Standin'  here  be  tlie   bridge,   when   last 

yer  Honor  was  Iiere  ■? 
An'  yer  Honor  ye  gev  her  the  top  of  the 

mornin',  "  To-morra,"  says  she. 
What   did   they   call    her,   yer   Honor  ? 

Tliey  calVd  her  Molly  Magee. 
An'  yer  Honor  's  the  thnfc  ouid    blood 

that  always  manes  to  be  kind, 
But    there   's   rason    in   all    tilings,    yer 

Honor,  for  Molly  was  out  of  her 

mind. 


3hnre,  an'  meself  rcmimbers  wan  night 

_  coniin'  down  be  the  sthrame, 
An'   it  seems   to  me  now   like  a  bit  of 

yisther-day  in  a  dhrame  — 
Here  where  yer  Honor  seen  her  —  there 

was  but  a  slip  of  a  moon. 
But  I  hard  iliiin  —  Molly  Magee  wid  her 

batclielor,  Danny  O'Roon  — 
*' You've   been    takiu'    a    dlirop    o'  the 

cratnur,"  an'  Danny  says,  "  Troth, 

an'  I  been 


Dhrinkin'  yer  health  wid  Shamus  O'Shea 

at  Katty's  shebeen  ;  * 
But  I  must  be  lavin'  ye  soou."    "  Ochone 

are  ye  goin'  away  ?  " 
"  Goin'  to  cut  the  Sassenach  whate,"  he 

says,"  over  the  say  "  — 
"An'  whin  will  ye  meet  me  agin?  "  an' 

I  hard  him,  "  Molly  asthore, 
I  '11  meet  you  agin  lo-morra,"  says  he 

"  be  the  chapel-door." 
"  An*  whin  are   ye  goiu'  to  lave  me  ?  ' 

"  O'  Monday  mornin'  "  says  he ; 
"An'shure  thin  ye  '11  meet  me  to-morra?' 

"  Tomorra,  to-morra,  Machree !  " 
Thin  Molly's  ould   mother,  yer   Honoi, 

that  had  no  likin'  for  Dan, 
Call'd   from  iier  cabin  an'  tould  hei  tr 

come  away  from  the  man. 
An'  Molly  Magee  kem  flyin'  acrass  me,  as 

light  as  a  lark. 
An'  Dau  stood  there  for  a  minute,  an' 

thin  wint  into  the  dark. 
But  wirrah  !  the  siorm  that  night  —  the 

tundhf  r,  an'  rain  that  fell. 
An'  the  sthrames  runniu'   down  at  the 

back  o'  the  glin  'ud  *a  dhrowuded 

hell. 


But  airth  was  at  pace  nixt  mornin',  ap' 

Hiven  in  its  glory  smiled. 
As  the  Holy  IMother  o'  Glory  that  smiles 

at  iier  sleepin'  child  — 
Ethen  — she   ste])t   an  the   chapel-green, 

an'  she  turn'd  herself  roun' 
Wid  a  diamond   dhrop   in  her  eye,  for 

Danny  was  not  to  be  foun', 
An*  many  's  the  time  that  I  watch'd  her 

at  mass  lettin'  down  the  tear. 
For  the   Divil  a  Danny  was  there,  yer 

Honor,  for  forty  year. 


Och,   Molly   Magee,  wid  the  red  o'  the 

rose  an'  the  white  o'  the  May, 
An'  yer  hair  as  black  as  the  night,  an 

yer  eyes  as  bright  as  the  day ! 
Achora,  yer    laste   little    whisbper    was 

sweet  as  the  lilt  of  a  bird  ! 
Acushla,  ye  set  me  heart  batin'  to  musio 

wid  ivery  word  ! 
An'  sorra  the  Queen  wid  her  sceptre  ia 

sich  an  illigant  han', 

*  Grog-shop. 


TO-MORROW. 


883 


An'  the  fall  of  yer  foot  in  the  dance  was 

as  hght  as  snow  an  the  hiu', 
An'  the  suu  keni  out  of  a  cloud  whiuiver 

ye  walkt  in  the  shtreet, 
An'  Shamus  O'Shea  was  yer  shadda,  an' 

laid  himself  undher  yer  feet, 
An'  I  loved  ye  nicself  wid  a  heart  and  a 

half,  me  darlin',  and  he 
'Ud  'a  shot  his  own  sowl  dead  for  a  kiss 

of  ye,  Molly  ilagee. 


But  share  we  wor  betther  friuds  whin  I 

crack'd  his  skull  for  her  sake, 
An'   he   ped   nie  baok   wid   the  best   he 

could    give    at    ould     Donovan's 

wake  — 
For  the  boys  wor  about   her  agin  whin 

Dan  did  n't  come  to  tlie  fore. 
An'  Shamus  along  wid  the  rest,  but  she 

put  thim  all  to  the  door. 
An',  afther,  I  tliritd  her  meself  av  the 

bird  'ud  come  to  me  call. 
But     Molly,     begorraii,    'ud    listhen    to 

naither  at  all,  at  all. 


An'  her  nabours  an*  f rinds  'ud  consowl 

an'   coudowl   wid    her,   airly   and 

late, 
"  Your  Danny,"  they  says,  "  uiver  crasst 

over  say  to  the  Sassenach  whate  ; 
He  's  gone  to  the  States,  aroon,  an'  he  's 

married  another  wife, 
An'  ye  '11  uiver  set  eyes  an  the  face  of  the 

tliraithur  agin  in  life  ! 
An'  to  dhranie  of  a  married  man,  death 

alive,  is  a  mortial  sin." 
But   Molly  says,  "  I  'd  his  hand-promise, 

an'  shure  he  '11  meet  me  airin." 


An'  afther  her  paiirints  had  inter'd  glory, 

an'  both  in  wau  day, 
Bhe  began  to  spake  to  herself,  the   cra- 

thur,  an'  whishper,  an'  say, 
"  To-morra,  To-morra  !  "  an'  Father  Mo- 

lowny  he  tuli  her  in  ban', 
"Molly,  you're  man:ii ,"  he   says,   'me 

dear,  av  I  uEdhersta,n', 
That  ye '11  mee'..  your  paiirints  agin  an' 

yer  Danny  O'Eoou  afort  God, 


Wid  his  blessed  Marthyrs  an'  Saints ;  " 
an'  she  gev  him  a  frindly  nod, 

"  To-morra,  To-morra,"  she  says,  an'  she 
did  n't  intiud  to  desave. 

But  her  wits  wor  dead,  au'  her  hair  was 
as  white  as  the  snow  an  a  grave. 


Arrah  now,  here  last  month  they  wor 
diggin'  the  bog,  an'  they  foun' 

Dhrownded  in  black  bog-wather  a  corp 
lyiu'  undher  groun'. 


Yer   Honor's  own  agint,  he  says  to  roe 

waiisf,  at  Katty's  shebeen, 
"  The  Divil  take  all  the  black  lau',  for  a 

bles>ln'  'ud  come  wid  the  green  !  " 
An'  where   'ud  the  poor  man,  tliin,  cut 

his  bit  o'  turf  for  the  fire  ? 
But  och!   bad  scran   to   the   bogs  whin 

they  swallies  the  man  intire  ! 
An'  sorra  the  bog  that 's  in  lliveu  wid  all 

the  light  an'  the  glow. 
An'  there  's  hate  enough,  sliure,  widout 

thim  in  the  Divil's  kitchen  below. 


Thim  ould  blind  nagers  in  Agypt,  I  hard 

his  Riverence  say, 
Could  keep  their  haiti.en   kings   in   the 

flesh  for  the  didgemint  day, 
An',  faix,  be  the  piper  o'  Moses,  they  kep 

the  cat  an'  the  dog, 
But  it  'ud  'a   been  aisier  work  av  they 

lived  be  an  Irish  bog. 


How-an-iver    they   laid    this    body    they 

foun'  an  the  grass 
Be  the  chapel-door,  au'  the  people  'ud  see 

it  that  wint  into  mass  — 
But  a  frish  gineration  had  riz,  an'  most 

of  the  ould  was  few. 
An'  I  did  n't  know  him  meself,  an'  none 

of  the  parish  knew. 


But  Molly  kem  limpin'  up  wid  her  stick, 
she  was  lamed  iv  a  knee, 


684 


THE   spinster's   SWEET-ARTS. 


Thin  a  slip  of  a  gossoon  call'd,  "  Div  ye 
know  him,  Molly  Magee  1  " 

An'  she  stood  up  strait  as  the  Queen  of 
the  world  —  she  lifted  her  head  — 

"'  He  said  he  would  meet  me  to-moria  !  " 
an'  dhropt  down  dead  an  the  dead. 


Och,   Molly,    we    thought,    machree,   ye 

would  start  back  agin  into  life, 
Whin  we  laid  yez,  aicli  be  aich,  at    yer 

wake  like  husban'  an'  wife. 
Sorra  the  dhry  eye  thin  but  was  wet  for 

the  friuds  that  was  gone  ! 
Sorra  the   silent   throat  but  we  hard  it 

cryin'  "  Ochone  !  " 
An''   Shamus  O'Shea   that   has  now  ten 

childer,  hansome  an'  tall, 
Him  an'  his  ciiilder  wor  keeuiu'  as  if  he 

had  lost  thim  all. 


Thin  his  Riverence  buried  thim  both  in 
wan  grave  be  the  dead  boor-tree  * 

The  young  man  Danny  O'Kooii  wid  his 
ould  woman,  Molly  Magee. 


May  all  the  flowers  o'  Jeroosilim  blossom 

an'  spring  from  the  grass, 
Imbrashin'  an'  kissiu'  aich  other —  as  ye 

did  —  over  yer  Crass  ! 
An'  the  lark  fly  out  o'  the  flowers  wid  his 

song  to  the  Sun  an'  the  Moon, 
An'  tell  thim  in  Iliven  about  Molly  Magee 

an'  her  Danny  O'Roon, 
Till  Holy  St.  Pether  gets  up  wid  his  kays 

an'  opens  the  gate  ! 
An'"  shure,  be  the  Crass,  that  's  betther 

nor  cuttin'  the  Sassenach  whate 
To  be  there  wid  the  Blessed  Mother,  an' 

Saints  an'  Marthyrs  galore, 
An   singin'  yer  "  Aves  "  an'  "  Fathers  " 

for  iver  an'  ivermore. 


An'  now  that  I  tould  yer  Honor  whativer 

1  hard  an'  seen, 
Yet  Honor  'ill  give  me  a  thrifle  to  dhrink 

yer  health  in  potheen. 
*  Elder-tree. 


THE   SPINSTER'S    SWEET- ARTS. 


Milk  for  my  sweet-arts,  Bess  i  furitmun 

be  the  time  about  now 
When  Molly   cooms   in   fro'  the  far-end 

close  wi'  her  paiiils  fro'  the  cow. 
Eh  !  tha  be  new  to  the  plaiice  —  thou  *rL 

gaiipin'  —  does  n't  tha  see 
I  calls  'em  arter  the  fellers  es  once  was 

sweet  upo'  me  ? 


Naily  to  be   sewer   it  be  past   'er  time. 

What  niaakcs  'er  sa  laiite  ? 
Goii  to  the  laiiue  at  the  back,  an'  loook 

thruf  Maddisou's  gaate ! 


Sweet-arts '.    Molly  belike  may  'a  lighted 

tonight  upo'  one. 
Sweet-arts  !  tlianks  to  the   Lord   that  I 

uiver  not  listen'd  to  uoiiu  ! 
So  I  sits  i'  my  oan  armchair  wi'  my  can 

kettle  theere  o'  the  hob, 
An'  Tommy   the  fust,   an'    Tommy  the 

second,  an'  Steevie  an'  Rob. 


Rob,  coom  oop  'ere  o'  my  knee.     Thou 

sees  that  i'  spite  o'  the  men 
I  'a  kep'   thruf  thick  an'  thin  my  two 

'oonilerd  a-year  to  mysen ; 
Yis !  thaw    tha   call'd  me   es    pretty    es 

ony  lass  i'  the  Shei-e, 
An'  thou  be  es  pretty  a  Tabby,  but  Robby 

I  seed  thruf  ya  theere. 


Feyther  'ud  saay  I  wur  ugiy  as  sin.  an' 

I  beiint  not  vaiiin, 
But  I  niver  wur  downright  hugly,  thaw 

soom  'ud  'a  ihowt  ma  plaiiin, 
An'  I  was  n't  sa  plaain  i'  pink  ribbons,  ye 

said  I  wur  pretty  i'  pinks. 
An'  I  liked  to  'ear  it  I  did,  but  I  beiint 

sich  a  fool  as  ye  thinks  ; 
Ye  was  stroiikin  ma  down  wi'  the  'air,  as 

I  be  astroakin  o'  you. 


THE   SPINSTER'S   SWEET-ARTS. 


685 


But  whiniver  I  loook'd  i'  tlie  glass  I  wur 
sewer  that  it  could  u"t  be  true ; 

Niver  wur  pretty,  not  I,  but  ye  knaw'd 
it  wur  pleasant  to  'ear, 

Thaw  it  waru't  not  me  es  wur  pretty,  but 
my  two  'oonderd  a-year. 


!>   ya  mind  the  murnin'  when  we  was 

a-walkin'  togither,  an'  .stood 
By  the  claiiy'd-oop  jjoiid,  that   the  foiilk 

be  sa  scared  at,  i'  Giygleshy  wood, 
Wheer  the  poor  wench  drowndid  hersen, 

black  Sal,  es  'ed  been  disgraiiced  ? 
An'   I  feel'd   'hy   arm    es  I    stood   wur 

a-creeapiii'  about  my  waiiist  ; 
An'  me  es  wur  alhis  afear'd  of  a  man's 

gittiu'  ower  fond, 
I  sidled   awaily   an'  awaiiy  till  I  plumpt 

foot  fust  i'  tile  pond  ; 
And,  Robby,  I  niver  'a  liked  tha  sa  well, 

as  I  did  that  daily, 
Fur  tha  joonipt  in  tliyscn,  an'  tha  hoickt 

my  feet  wi'  a  flop  fro"  the  claiiy. 
Ay,  stick  oop  thy  back,  an'  set  oop  thy 

taiiil,  tha  nn\y  gie  ma  a  kiss. 
Fur  I  walk'd  wi'  tha  all  the  way  hoam  an' 

wur  niver  sa  nigh  saiiyin'  Yis. 
But  wa  boiith  was  i'  sich  a  clat  we  was 

shaiimed  to  cross  Gigglesby  Greeiiu, 
Fur  a  cat  may  looiik  at  a  king  thou  knaws 

but  the  cat  mun  be  cleiin. 
Sa  we  boiith  on  us  kep  out  o'  sight  o'  the 

winders  o'  Gigglesby  Hinn  — 
Naay,  but  the  claws  o'  tha  !  quiet  !  they 

pricks  cleiin  thruf  to  the  skin  — 
An'  wa  boiitli  slinkt  'oiim  by  the  brokken 

shed  i'  the  laiine  at  the  back, 
Wheer  the  poodle  ruun'd  at  tha'  once, 

an'  tiiou  rnnu'd  oop  o'  the  thack ; 
An'  tha  squeedg'd  my  'and  i'  the  shed, 

fur  theere  we  was  forced  to  'ide, 
Fur  I  seed  that  Steevie  wur  coomin',  and 

one  o'  the  Tommies  beside. 


Theere  now,  what  art'a  mewin  at 
Steevie'?  for  owt  I  can  tell  —  \ 

Robby  wnr  fust  to  be  sewer,  or  1  mowt 
'a  liked  tha  as  well. 


But,  Robby,  I  thowt  o'  tha  all  the  while  I 
wur  chaangin'  my  gown, 


An'  I  thowt  shall  I  chaange  my  staiite  ? 

but,  0  Lord,  U[)o'  coomin'  down  — 
My  bran-uew  carpet  es  fresh  es  a  midder 

o'  flowers  i'  Maiiy  — 
Why  'ed  n't  tha  wiped  thy  shoes  ?  it  wur 

chitted  all  ower  wi'  claiiy. 
An'  I  could  'a  cried  ammost,  fur  I  seec 

that  it  could  n't  be. 
An'  Robby  I  gied  tha  araiitiu  tliat  sattled 

thy  coortin  o'  me. 
An'  Molly  an'  me  was  agreed,  as  we  wai 

a-cleiiniu'  the  floor, 
That  a  man  be  a  durty  thing  an'  a  trouble 

an'  plague  wi'  indoor. 
But  I  rued  it   arter  a  bit,  fur  I  stuck  to 

tha  more  na  the  rest, 
But  I  could  n't  'a  lived  wi'  a  man  an    I 

knaws  it  be  all  fur  the  best. 


Naiiy  —  let   ma  stroiik  tha  down  till  I 

mailkes  tha  as  smooth  ns  silk. 
But  if  I  'ed  married  tha,  Robby,  thou  'd 

not  'a  been  worth  thy  milk, 
Thou  'd  niver  'a  cotch'd  ony  mice  but  'a 

left  me  the  work  to  do, 
And  'a  taiien  to  the  bottle  beside,  so  es  all 

that  I  'ears  be  true  ; 
But  1  loovs  tha  to  maiike  thysen  'appy, 

an'  soa  purr  awaiiy,  my  dear, 
Thou  'ed  wcllnigh  purr'd  ma  awaiiy  fro' 

my  oilu  two  'oonderd  a-year. 


Swearin  agean,  you  Toms,  as  ye  used  to 

do  twelve  years  sin'  ! 
Ye  niver  'eard  Steevie  sweiir  'cep'  it  wur 

at  a  dog  coomin'  in. 
An'  boath  o'  ye  nmn  be  fools  to  be  hallus 

a-shawin'  your  claws, 
Fur  I  niver  cared  nothink  for  neither  — ■ 

an'  one  o'  ye  deiid  ye  knaws  ! 
Coom   giv    hoiiver   then,    weant    ye  ?      I 

warrant  ye  soom  line  daily  — 
Theere,  lig  down  —  I  shall  hev  to  gie  one 

or  tother  awaiiy. 
Can't  ye  taiike  pattern   by   Steevie  ?   ye 

shant  hev  a  drop  fro'  the  paiiil. 
Steevie  be  right  good  manners  bang  thruf 

to  the  tip  o'  the  taiiil. 


Robby,   git  down   wi'tha,  wilt  tha  ?   let 
Steevie  coom  oop  o'  my  kuee. 


686 


THE   SPINSTER  S   SWEET-ARTS. 


Steevie,  my  lad,  thou  'ed  very  nigh  been 

the  Steevie  fur  me  ! 
Robby  wur  fust  to  be  sewer,  'e  wur  burn 

an'  bred  i'  the  'ouse, 
But  thou  be  es  'ansom  a  tabby  as  iver 

patted  a  mouse 


An'  I  beant  not  vaaiu,  but  I  knaws  I  'ed 

led  tha  a  quieter  life 
Nor  her  wi'  the   hepitaph  yonder !     "  A 

faaithful  an'  loovin'  wife  !  " 
An'  'cos  o'  thy  farm  by  the  beck,  an'  thy 

windmill  cop  o'  the  croft, 
Tha   thowt   tha   would   many    ma,   did 

tha  1    but    that   wur  a    bit    ower 

soft, 
Thaw  thou  was  es  soiiber  as  daily,  wi'  a 

niced  red  faiice,  an'  es  cleiin 
Es  a   shillin'   fresh  fro'  the   mint   wi'  a 

bran-new  'ead  o'  the  Queeiln, 
An'  thy  farmin'  es  clean  es  thysen,  fur, 

Steevie,  tha  kep'  it  sa  neat 
That  I  niver  not  spied  sa  much  as  a  fjoppy 

along  wi'  the  wheat, 
An'   the   wool   of    a   thistle   a  flyin'    au' 

seeadiu'  tha  haated  to  see; 
'Twur  as  bad  as  a  battle-twig*  'ere  i'  my 

oan  blue  chautnber  to  me. 
Ay,  roob  thy  whiskers  agelin   ma,  fur  I 

could  'a  taiien  to  tha  well, 
But  fur  thy  bairns,  poor  Steevie,  a  boun- 

cin'  boy  an'  a  gell. 


An'  thou  was  es  fond  o'  thy  bairns  es  I 

be  mysen  o'  my  cats, 
But   I   niver   not   wish'd  fur   childer,   I 

hev  n't  naw  likin'  fur  brats  ; 
Pretty  anew  when  ya  dresses  'em  oop,  an' 

they  goiis  fur  a  walk, 
Or  sits  wi'  their  'ands  afoor  'em,  an'  does 

n't  not  'iiuler  the  talk! 
But  their  bottles  o'  pap,  an'  their  mucky 

bibs,  an'  the  clats  an'  the  clouts, 
An*   their   mashin'  their  toys  to  pieiices 

an'    malikin'    ma    deaf    wi'    their 

shouts, 
An'hallus  a-joompin'  about  ma  as  if  they 

was  set  upo'  springs, 
An'  a  haxiu'  ma  hawkard  questions,  an' 

saayin'  ondeceut  things, 

*  Ear\vig. 


An'  a-callin'  ma  "  hugly  "  mayhap  to  my 
faiice,  or  a  teiirin'  my  gowu  — 

Dear  !  dear !  dear !  I  mun  part  their 
Tommies  —  Steevie  git  down 


Ye  be  wuss  nor  the  men-tommies,  you  i 
tell'd  ya,  na  moor  o'  that ! 

Tom,  lig  theere  o'  the  cushion,  an'  tothe' 
Tom  'ere  o'  the  mat. 


Theere!  I  ha' master'd  i/ie;^  /  Hedlmap 

ried  the  Tommies  —  0  Lord, 
Toloove  an'  obaiiy  the  Tommies !  I  could 

n't  'a  stuck  by  my  word. 
To  be  horder'd  about,  an'  waiiked,  when 

JMoUy  'd  put  out  the  light, 
By  a  man  cooniiu'  in  wi'  a  hiccup  at  ony 

hour  o'  the  niyht ! 
An'  the  taiible  stailin'd  wi'  'is  aiile,  an' 

the  mud  o'  'is  boots  o'  the  stairs, 
An'  the  stink  o'  'is  pipe  i'  the  'ouse,  an' 

the  mark  o'  'is  'eiid  o'  the  chairs ! 
An'  noiiu  o'  my  four  sweet-arts  'ud  'a  let 

me  'a  bed  my  oiin  waay, 
Sa  I  likes  'em  best  wi'  taiiils  when  they 

'ev  n't  a  word  to  saay. 


An'    I   sits   i'   my  oan   little  parlor,  an' 

sarved  by  my  oiin  little  lass, 
Wi'  my  oiin  little  garden  outside,  an'  my 

oiin  bed  o'  sparrow-gi'asSj 
An'  my  oan  door-poorch  wi'  the  woodbine 

an'  jessmine  adressin'  it  greeiin. 
An'   m}'   oiin   fine  Jackman  i'  purple  a 

roiibin'  the  'ouse  like  a  Queeiin. 


An'  the  little  gells  bobs  to  ma  hoffens  efe 

I  be  abroad  i'  the  laiines, 
When  I  goas  to  coomfut   the  poor  es  bt 

down   wi'    their  haaches  an'  their 

paiiins : 
An'  a  haiif-pot  o' jam,  or  a  mossel  o'  meal 

when  it  beiint  too  dear. 
They  maiikes   ma  a  graiiter   Laadj'  nor 

'er  i'  the  mansion  .theer  •. 


BALIN   AND    BALAN. 


687 


Hes  *es  hallus  to  hax  of  a  man  how  much 

to  spare  or  to  spend  ; 
An'  a  spiii>ter  I  he  an'  I  will  be,  if  soa 

please  God,  to  the  heud. 


Mew!  mew. — Bess  wi'  the  milk!  what 

ha  maade  our  Molly  sa  laiite  ? 
It  should  'a  been  'ere  by  seven,  an'  theere 

—  it  be  sciikin'  heiirht  — 
"Cushie  wur  craiizod  fur 'er  cauf,"  well 

—  I  'eard  'er  a  maiikiu'  'er  moiiu, 
An'  I  thowt  to  mysen  "  thank  God  that  I 

hev  n't  naw  cauf  o'  my  oan." 
Theere ! 

Set  it  down  ! 
Now  Robby  ! 

You  Tommies  shall  waiiit  to-night 
Till  Robby  an'  Stevie  '<'s  'ed  their  lap  — 
an'  it  sarves  ye  right. 


BALIN   AND   BALAN.* 

Pellam   the   King,  who  held  and   lost 
with  Lot 

In  that  first  war,  and  had  his  realm  re- 
stored 

But  render 'd  tributary,  fail'd  of  late 

To  send    his   tribute  ;  wlierefore  Arthur 
call'd 

His  treasurer,   one  of   many  years,  and 
spake, 

"  Go  thou  with  him  and  him  and  bring  it 
to  us, 

Lest  we   should   set   one  truer    on    his 
throne. 

Man's  word  is  God  in  man." 

His  Baron  said 

"  We    go,   but    h;irken :     there    be    two 
strange  knights 

Who  sit  uear  Camelot  at  a  fountain  side, 

A  mile  beneath  the  forest,  challenging 

And    overthrowing    every    knight    who 
comes. 

Wilt  thou  I  undertake  them  as  we  pass, 

And  send  them  to  thee  ?  " 

Arthur  laugh'd  upon  him. 

"  Old    friend,   too    old   to    be   so   young, 
depart, 

Delay  not  thou  for  ought,  but  let  them 
sit, 

Until    they    find    a   lustier    than    them- 
selves." 

*  An  introduction  to  "  Merlin  and  Vivien." 


So    these    departed.     Eajly,  one  fair 
dawn, 
The   light-wing'd    spirit   of    his   youth 

returii'd 
On   Arthur's   heart;    he    arm'd   himself 

and  went, 
So  coming  to  the  fountain-side  beheld 
Baiin  and  Balan  sitting  statuelike. 
Brethren,   to  right  and  left   the   spring; 

that  down, 
From  underneath  a  plume  of  lady-fern. 
Sang,  and  the  sand  danced  at  the  bottom 

of  it. 
And  on  the  right  of  Balin  Balin's  horse 
Was  fast  beside  an  alder,  on  the  left 
Of  Balan  Balan 's  uear  a  poplaitree. 
"  Fair    Sirs,"    said    Arthur,  "  wherefore 

sit  ye  here  i  " 
Balin    and    Balan    answer'd,   "  For  the 

sake 
Of  glory  ;  we  be  mightier  men  than  all 
In   Arthur's   court ;    that   also   have   we 

proved ; 
For  whatsoever  knight  against  us  came 
Or  I  or  he  have  easily  overthrown." 
"  I  too,"   said  Arthur,  "am  of  Arthur's 

hall. 
But  rather  proven  in  his  Paynim  wars 
Than  famous  jousts;   but  see,  or  i)roven 

or  not, 
Whether  me  likewise  ye  can  overthrow." 
And  Artliur  lightly  sinote  the    brethren 

down, 
And    li'^htly   so   return'd,   and   no   man 
knew. 
Then  Balin  rose,  and  Balan,  and  be- 
side 
The  carolling  water  set  themselves  again. 
And   spake    no  word    until   the    shadow 

turn'd  ; 
When  from  the  fringe  of  coppice  round 

them  burst 
A  spangled  pursuivant,  and  crying  "  Sirs, 
Bise,  follow  !  ye  be  sent  for  by  the  King," 
They  follow'd  ;  whom  when  Arthur  see- 
ing ask'd 
"  Tell  me  vour  names ;  why  sat  ye  by  the 

well?  " 
Balin  the  stillness  of  a  minute  broke 
Saving  "  An  unmelodious  name  to  thee, 
Balin,     the     '  Savage  '  —  that     addition 

thine  — 
My    brother   and    my    better,   this    man 

here, 
Balan.     I  smote  upon  the  naked  skull 
A  thrall  of  thine  in  open  hall,  my  hand 
■Was   gauntleted,  half  slew   him  ;   for  J 
heard 


688 


BALIN  AND   BALAN. 


He   had  spoken    evil   of   me ;    thy  jnst 

wrath 
Sent  nie  a  three-years'  exile  from  thine 

eyes. 
I  have  not  lived  my  life  delightsomely  : 
For  I  that  did  that  violence  to  thy  thrall, 
Had  often  wrought  some  fury  on  myself, 
Saving  for  Balan :    those  three  kiiigless 

years 
Have    past — were    wormwood-bitter    lO 

me.     King, 
Methought   that   if    we    sat    beside   the 

well 
And  hiirl'd  to  ground  what  knight  soever 

spurr'd 
Against  us,  thou  would'st  take  me  glad- 

lier  back, 
And  make,  as  ten-times  worthier  to  be 

thine 
Than   twenty  Balins,  Balan    knight.      I 

have  said. 
Not  so  —  not  all.     A  man  of  thine  to-day 
Abash'd  us   both,  and  brake  my   boast. 

Thy  will?" 
Said   Arthur,  "  Thou    hast  ever   spoken 

truth; 
Thy  too  fierce  manhood  would   not  let 

thee  lie. 
Rise,  my  true  knight.    As  children  learn, 

be  thou 
Wiser  for  falling !  walk  with   me,   and 

move 
To  music  with  thine  Order  and  the  King. 
Thy  chair,  a  grief  to  all  the   brethren, 

stands 
Vacant,  but  thou  retake  it,  mine  again  !  " 
Thereafter,    when    Sir    Balin    enter'd 

hall, 
The  Lost  one  Found  was  greeted  as  in 

Heaven 
With  joy  that  blazed   itself  in  woodland 

wealth 
Of  leaf,  and  gayest  garlandage  of  flowers. 
Along   the  walls  and   down  the    board ; 

they  sat. 
And   cu])   clash'd   cup ;  they  drank   and 

some  one  sang, 
Sweet-voiced,  a  song  of  welcome,  where- 
upon 
Their  common  shout   in   chorus,  mount- 
ing, made 
Those   banners   of   twelve   battles   over- 
head 
Stir,  as  ihey  stirr'd  of  old,  when  Arthur's 

liost 
Proclaim'd  him  Victor,  and  the  day  was 

won. 
Then  Balan  added  to  their  Order  lived 


A  wealthier    life    than  heretofore    with 

these 
And  Balin,  till  their  embassage  return'd. 
"  Sir  King,"  they  brought  report,"  we 

hardly  found, 
So   biish'd   about  it   is  with  gloom,  the 

hall 
Of  him  to  wliom  ye  sent  ns,  Pellam,  once 
A  Christless  foe  of  thine  a:  ever  dash'd 
Horse  against  horse;  but  seeing  that  thy 

realm 
Hath  prosper'd  in  the  name  of  Christ,  the 

King 
Took,  as  in  rival  heat,  to  holy  things  ; 
And  finds  himself  descended   from   the 

Saint 
Arimathsean  Joseph  ;  him  who  first 
Brought  the  great  faith  to  Britain  ovel 

seas ; 
He  boasts  his   life  as  purer  than    thine 

own ; 
Eats    scarce    enow    to    keep    his    pulse 

abeat ; 
Hath  push'd  aside  his  faithful  wife,  nor 

lets 
Or  dame  or  damsel  enter  at  his  gates 
Lest   he  should  be  polluted.     This  gray 

King 
Show'd  us  a  shrine  wherein  were  wonders 

—  yea  — 
Rich  arks' with  priceless  bones  of  martyr- 
dom. 
Thorns  of  the  crown  and  shivers  of  the 

cross. 
And  therewithal   (for  thus   he   told   us) 

brought 
By  holy  Joseph  hither,  that  same  spear 
Wherewiih  the  Roman  pierced  the  side 

of  Christ. 
He   much   amazed    ns ;  after,    when    we 

sought 
The  tribute,  answer'd  "  I  have  quite  fore- 
gone 
All  matters  of  this  world :  Garlon,  mine 

heir 
Of  him  demand  it,"  which   this  Garlon 

gave 
With   much    ado,  railing   at   thine   and 

thee. 
But  when  wc  left,  in  those  deep  woods 

we  found 
A   knight  of   thine   spear-stricken   from 

behind. 
Dead,  whom  we  buried;  more  than  one 

of  us 
Cried    out    on   Garlon,    but    a   woodmaQ 

there 
Reported  of  some  demon  in  the  woods 


BALIN   AND   BALAN. 


689 


Was  once   a  man,   who   driven  bv  evil 

tongues 
From   all   his  fellows,   lived  alone,  and 

came 
To  learn    black  magic,  and  to  hate  his 

kind 
With  such  a  hate,  that  when  he  died,  liis 

soul 
Becanie  a  Fiend, 'which,  as  the  man   in 

life 
Was  wounded  bv  blind  tongues  he  saw 

not  wiicnce, 
Strikes  from    behind.      This   woodman 

show'd  the  cave 
From  which  he  sallies,  and  wherein  he 

dwelt. 
We   saw   the   hoof-print  of  a   horse,  no 

more." 
Then  Arthur,    "  Let    who  goes  before 

me,  see 
He  do  not  fall  behind  me  :   foully  slain 
And  villainously  !  who  will  hunt  for  me 
This  demon  of  the  woods  ?  "    Said  Balan, 

"  I "  ! 
So  claim'd  the  quest  and  rode  awav,  but 

tirst, 
Embracing   Ralin,    "  Good,   my    brother, 

hear ! 
Let   not   thy  moods  prevail,  when  I  am 

gone 
Who  used  to  lay  them  !  hold  them  outer 

fiends, 
Who   lea])   at  thee   to  tear  thee  ;   shake 

them  aside, 
Dreams  ruling  when  wit  sleeps  !  yea,  but 

to  dream 
That  any   of  these    would    wrong   thee, 

wrongs  thyself. 
Witness  their  flowery  wclccme.     Bound 

are  they 
To  speak  no  evil.     Truly  save  for  fears. 
My  fears  for  tliee,  so  ricli  a  fellowsliip 
Would  make  me  wholly  blest :  thou  one 

of  them, 
Be  one  indeed  :  consider  them,  and  all 
Their  bearing  in  their  common  bond  of 

love, 
No  more  of  hatred  than  in  Heaven  itself, 
No  move  of  jealousy  than  in  Paradise." 
So    Balan    warn'd,    and    went  ;    Balin 

remain'd; 
Who  ■ —  for  but    three   brief    moons  had 

glanced  away 
Prom    being   knighted  till  he  smote  the 

thrall, 
And  faded  from  the  presence  into  years 
Of  exile  —  now  would  strictlier  set  him- 
self 


To  learn  what  Arthur   meant  by  cour- 
tesy. 
Manhood,     and    knighthood  ;    wherefore 

hover'd  round 
Lancelot,  but  when  he  mark'd  his  high 

sweet  smile 
In  passing,  and  a  transitory  word 
Make  knight  or  churl  or  child  or  damsel 

seem 
From   being  smrled  at  happier  in  them- 
selves — 
Sigh'd,  as  a   boy  lame-born   beneath  a 

height. 
That  glooms  his  valley,  sighs  to  see  the 

peak 
Sun-flnsb'd,  or  toudi  at  night  the  north- 
ern star  ; 
For  one    from    out    his    village    lately 

climb'd 
And  brought  report  of  azure  lands  and 

fair, 
Far  seen  to  left  and  riyht ;  and  he  him- 
self 
Hath  hardly  scaled  with  help  a  hundred 

feet  " 
Up  from  the  base :  so  Balin  marvelling 

oft 
How  far  beyond  him  Lancelot  sccm'd  to 

move, 
Groan'd,   and   at    times  would    mutter, 

"  These  be  gifts. 
Born     with    the    blood,    not    learnable, 

divine. 
Beyond  my  reach.     Well  had  I  foughten 

—  well  — 
In  those  fierce  wars,  struck  hard  —  and 

had  I  crown'd 
With  my  slain  self  the  heaps  of  whom  I 

slew  — 
So  —  better  !  —  But  this  worship  of  the 

Queen, 
That  honor  too  wherein  she  holds  him  — 

this, 
This  was  the  sunshine  that  hath  given 

the  man 
A  growth,  a  name  that  branches  o'er  the 

rest, 
And  strength  against  all  odds,  and  what 

the  King 
So  prizes  -.-  overprizes  —  gentleness. 
Her  likewise  would  I  woi.-hip  an  I  might. 
I  never  can  be  close  with  her,  as  he 
That  brought   her  hither.     Shall   I  pray 

the  King 
To  let  me  bear  some  token  of  his  Queen 
Whereon    to   gaze,    remembering  her  — » 

forget 
My  heats  and  violences'?  live  afresh  "^ 


690 


BALIN   AND   BALAN, 


What,  if  the  Queen  disdain'd  to  grant  it ! 

nay, 
Being  so  stately -gen  tie,  would  she  make 
My  darkness  blackness  1  and  with  how 

sweet  grace 
She   greeted    my   return !     Bold    will   I 

be  — 
Some  goodly  cognizance  of  Guinevere, 
In   lieu   of   this   rough   beast    upon   my 

shield, 
Langued  gules,  and  tooth'd  with  grinning 

savagery." 
And    Arthur,   when  Sir  Balin  sought 

him,  said, 
"  What   wilt   thou   bear  ?  "     Balin   was 

bold,  and  ask'd 
To    bear    her    own    crown  -  royal    upon 

shield, 
Whereat  she  smiled   and   tiirn'd  her  to 

the  King, 
Who   answer'd,    "  Thou    shalt   put    the 

crown  to  use.  • 

The  crown   is  but    the   shadow   of    the 

King, 
And   tliis   a  shadow's   shadow,   let   liim 

have  it, 
So  this  will  help  him  of  his  violences !  " 
"No   shadow,"   said   Sir  Balin,  "O  my 

Queen, 
But  light  to  me  !  no  shadow,  O  my  King, 
But  golden  earnest  of  a  gentler  life  !  " 
So  Balin  bare  the  crown,  and  all  the 

kniiilits 
Approved   him,  and  tiie  Queen,  and  all 

the  world 
Made  music,  and  he  felt  his  being  move 
In  music  with  his  Order,  and  the  King. 
The  nightingale,  full-toned   in  middle 

May, 
Hath  ever  and  anon  a  note  so  thin 
It  seems  another  voice  in  other  groves  ; 
Thus,  after  some  quiV'k  burst  of  sudden 

wrath, 
The  music  in  him  seem'd  to  change,  and 

grow 
Faint  and  far-off. 

And  once  he  saw  the  thrall 
His    passion     half     had    gauntleted    to 

death. 
That    causer    of     his    banishment    and 

shame, 
Smile  at  him,  as  he   deem'd,  presumptu- 
ously : 
His  arm  half   rose  to  strike   again,  but 

fell: 
The  memory  of  that  cognizance  on  shield 
Weighted    it   down,    but   in   himself  he 

moau'd : 


"  Too  high  this  mount  of  Camelot  for 

me : 
These  high-set  courtesies  are  not  for  me. 
Shall  I  not  rather  prove  the  worse  for 

these  1 
Fierier   and    stormier    from   restraining, 

break 
Into    some     madness    ev'n    before    the 

Queen  'I " 
Thus,   as   a   hearth  lit  in  a  mountain 

home, 
And  glancing  on  the  window,  when  the 

gloom 
Of  twilight   deepens  round  it,   seems  a 

flame 
That  rages  in  the  woodland  far  below, 
So  when  his  moods  were  darkeu'd,  court 

and  King 
And  all  the  kindly  warmth  of  Arthur's 

hall 
Shadow'd    an    angry    distance :   yet  he 

strove 
To    learn    the    graces    of    their   Table, 

fought 
Hard  with  himself,  and  seem'd  at  length 

in  peace. 
Then  chanced,  one  morning,  that  Sir 

Balin  sat 
Close-bower'd   in    that   garden    nigh   the 

hall. 
A  walk  of  roses  ran  from  door  to  door; 
A  walk  of  lilies  crost  it  to  the  bower: 
And  down  that  range  of  roses  the  great 

Queen 
Came  with  slow  steps,  the   morning  on 

her  face  ; 
And  all  in  shadow  from  the  counter  door 
Sir   Lancelot   as   to   meet   her,   then   at 

once, 
As   if  he    saw   not,   glanced   aside,  and 

paceil 
The  long  white  walk  of  lilies  toward  the 

bower. 
Follow'd  the    Queen ;    Sir   Balin   heard 

her,  "  Prince, 
Art  thou  so  little  loyal  to  thy  Queen, 
As   ]Kiss   without    good  morrow  to   thy 

Queen  .' " 
To  whom  Sir  Lancelot  with  his  eyes  on 

earth, 
"  Fain   would   I   still    be    loyal    to    the 

Queen." 
"  Yea  so,"  she  said,  "but  so  to  pass  me 

So  loyal  scarce  is  loyal  to  thyself. 
Whom  all  men  rate  the  king  of  courtesy. 
Let  be :   ye    stand,   fair    lord,  as    in  $ 
dream." 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


691 


Then  Lancelot,  with  his  haud  among 

the  flowers, 
"  Yea  —  for   a   dream.     Last   night  me- 

thought  I  saw 
That  maiden  Saint  who  stands  with  lily 

in  hand 
in  yonder  shrine.     All  round  her  prest 

the  dark, 
And  all  tlie  light  npon  her  silver  face 
Flow'd  from  tlie  spiritual  lily    that  she 

held. 
Lo!  these  her  emblems  drew  mine  eyes 

—  away : 
For  see,  liow  perfect-pure  !     As  light  a 

flush 
As  hardly  tints  the  blossom  of  the  quince 
Would     mar    their    charm    of    stainless 

mauienhood." 
"  Sweeter  to  me,"  she  said,  "  this  gar- 
den rose 
Deep  -  hued  and   many  -  folded  !  sweeter 

still 
The  wild-wood  hyacinth  and  the  bloom  of 

May. 
Prince,  we  have  ridd'u  before  among  the 

flowers 
In  those  fair  days  —  not  all  as  cool  as 

tiiese, 
Tho'   season-earlier.     Art   tliou  sad  ■?  or 

sick  ? 
Our  noble  King  will  send  thee  his   own 

leech  — 
Sick  1    or    for    any   matter    anger'd    at 

mel" 
Then   Lancelot  lifted  his   large  eyes ; 

they  dwelt 
Deep  -  tranced   on   hers,    and   could   not 

fall :  her  hue 
Changed  at  his  gaze  :  so  turning  side  by 

side 
They   past,  and   Balin  started   from  his 

bower. 
"  Queen  ?  subject  ?  but  I  see  not  what  I 

see. 
Damsel   and   lover  ?     hear   uot    what    I 

hear. 
My  father  hath  begotten  me  in  his  wrath. 
1  suffer  from  the  things  before  me,  know. 
Learn   nothing ;   am   uot   worthy   to  be 

knight ; 
A  churl,  a  clown  !  "  and  in  him  gloom  on 

gloom 
Deepen'd  :  he  sharply   caught  his   lance 

and  shield, 
llor  stay'd  to  crave    permission   of    the 

King, 
But,  mad  for  strange  adventure,  dash'd 
away. 


He  took  the  selfsame  track  as  Balau, 
saw 
The  fountain  where   they  sat   together, 

sigh'd 
"  Was  I  not  better  there  with  him  ?  "  and 

rode 
The  skyless  woods,  but  under  open  blue 
Came  on   the  hoarhead   woodman   at   s 

bough 
Wearily  hewing,    "  Churl,   thine   axe  !  " 

he  cried, 
Descended,  and  disjointed  it  at  a  blow: 
To  whom  the  woodman  utter'd  wouder- 

ingly, 
"  Lord,   thou   couldst   lay   the   Devil  of 

these  woods 
If  arm  of  flesh  could  lay  him."     Balin 

cried, 
"Him,  or  the  viler  devil  who   plays  his 

part, 
To  lay  that  devil  wouhl  lay  the  Devil  in 

me." 
"  Nay,"   said  the  churl,  "  our   devil  is  a 

truth, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  him  but  ycstereven. 
And    some  do   say  that  our  Sir  Garlon 

too 
Hath  learn'd  black  magic,  and  to  ride  un- 
seen. 
Look  to  the  cave."     But  Balin  answer'd 

him, 
"Old  fabler, these  be  fancies  of  the  churl. 
Look   to  thy  woodcraft,"  and  so  leaving 

him. 
Now  with  slack  rein  and  careless  of  him- 
self, 
Now  with  dug  spur  and  raving  at  him- 
self, 
Now   with  droopt   brow  down   the  long 

glades  he  rode  ; 
So   mark'd   not   on   his   right  a  cavern- 
chasm 
Yawn    over    darkness,    where,    nor    fai 

within 
The  whole  day  died,  out,  dying,  gleam'd 

on  rocks 
Roof-pendent,    sharp;    and    others  from 

the  floor. 
Tusklike,  arising,   made    that   mouth  of 

night 
Whereout    the   Demon   issued   up   from 

Hell. 
He  mark'd  not  this,  but  blind  and    deaf 

to  all 
Save  that  chain'd  rage,  which  ever  yelpt 

within. 
Past  eastward  from  the  falling  sun.     At 
once 


692 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


He  felt  the  hollow-beaten  mosses  thud 
And  tremble,  aud  then  the  shadow  of  a 

spear, 
Shot   from   behind    liim,   ran   along  the 

ground. 
Sideways  he  started  from  the  path,  and 

saw, 
With  poiuted  lauce  as  if  to  pierce,  a  shape, 
A  light  of  armor  by  him  flash,  and  pats 
Aud   vanish  iu  the  woods ;  and  foUow'd 

this. 
But  all  so  blind  iu  rage  that  unawares 
He    burst    his    lance    against    a     forest 

bough, 
Dishorsed  himself,  and  rose  again,  aud 

fled 
Far,  till  the  castle  of  a  King,  the  hall 
Of  Pcllam,  lichen-bearded,  grayly  draped 
With  streaming  grass,  appear'd,  low-built 

but  strong ; 
The  ruinous  donjon  as  a  knoll  of  moss, 
The  battlement  ovcrtopt  with  ivytods, 
A  home  of  bats,  in  every  tower  an  owl 
Then  spake  the  men  of  Fellam  crying, 
"  Lord, 
Why   wear   ye    his    crown  -  royal    upon 

shield  ?  " 
Said  Balin,  "  For  the  fairest  aud  the  best 
Of  ladies  living  gave  me  this  to  bear." 
So  stall'd   his  horse,  and   strode   across 

the  court. 
But  found  the  greetings  both  of  knight 

aud  King- 
Faint  in  the  low  dark  hall  of  banquet : 

leaves 
Laid  their  green  faces   flat   against  the 

panes, 
Sprays  grated,  and  the  canker'd  boughs 

without 
Whined  in  the  wood  ;  for  all  was  hush'd 

within, 
Till  when  at  feast  Sir   Garlou   likewise 

ask'd, 
"Why    wear    ye    that    crown  -  royal  ?  " 

Balin  said, 
"  The    Queen    we   worship,   Lancelot,  I, 

and  all, 
As  fairest,  best  and  purest,  granted  me 
To  bear  it !  "    Such  a  sound  ( for  Arthur's 

knights 
Were    hated   strangers   iu   the   hall)    as 

makes 
The  white  swan-mother,  sitting,  when  she 

hears 
A   strange   knee   rustle   thro'  her  secret 

reeds, 
Made   Gallon,    hissing ;    then    he   sourly 
smiled. 


"  Fairest  I  grant  oer :  I  have  seen  ;  but 

best, 
Best,  purest  ?  thou  from   Arthur's   hall, 

and  yet 
So  simple !    hast   thou   eyes,   or  if,   are 

these 
So  far  besotted  that  they  fail  to  see 
This   fair  wife-worship   cloaks   a  secret 

shame  1 
Truly,  ye  men  of  Arthur  be  but  babes." 

A  goblet  on  the  board  liy  Balin,  boss'd 
With  holy  Joseph's  legend,  on  his  right 
Stood,  all  of   massiest  bronze  :  one  side 

had  sea 
And  ship  and  sail  and  angels  blowing  on 

it: 
And  one  was  rough  with  pole  and  scaf- 

foldage 
Of  that  low  church  he  built  at  Glastoa 

bury. 
This  Balin    graspt,  but  while   in  act  to 

hurl, 
Thro'  memory  of  that  token  on  the  shield 
Kelax'd  his  hold  :     "  I  will  be  gentle,"  he 

iliougiit, 
"  Aud  passing  gentle  "  caught  his  hand 

away, 
Tiien  fiercely  to  Sir  Garlon,  "  Eyes  have  I 
That  saw  to-day  the  shadow  of  a  spear, 
Shot  from   behiud    me,   run    along   the 

ground  ; 
Eyes  too  that   long   have   watch'd    how 

Lancelot  draws, 
From    homage   to    the  best   and   purest, 

might. 
Name,  manhood,  and  a  grace,  but  scantly 

tliine. 
Who,   silting   iu   thine  own   hall,  canst 

endure 
To  mouth  so  huge  a  foulness  —  to  thy 

guest. 
Me,  me  of  Arthur's  Table.     Felon  talk  ! 
Let  be  !  no  more  !  " 

But  not  the  less  by  night 
The  scorn  of   Garlon,  poisoning  all  his 

rest, 
Stung  him    in  dreams.     At  length,  and 

dim  thro'  leaves 
Bliukt  the  white  morn,  sprays  grated,  and 

old  boughs 
Whined  in  the  wood.    He  rose,  descended, 

met 
The    scorner   in    the   castle    court,   and 

fain, 
For  hate  and  loathing,  would  have  past 

him  by  ; 
But   when  Sir  Garlon  utter'd   mocking- 

wise ; 


BALIN   AND   BALAN. 


693 


"  What,  wear  ye  still  that  same  crowu- 

scaudalous  ?  " 
His  couu.enance  biackcu'd,  aud  his  fore- 
head veins 
Bloated,  aud  biaiich'd;   and  tearing  out 

of  sheath 
The  brand,  Sir  Baliu  with  a  fiery  "  Ha! 
So  thou  be  shadow,  here    I    make    tliee 

ghost," 
Hard    upou    helm    smote    him,    and    the 

blade  flew 
Splintering  in  six,  and  cliukt  upon   the 

stones. 
Then    Garlon,  reeling  slowly  backward, 

fell, 
And  Balin  by  the  banneret  of  his  helm 
Dragg'd  him,  and  struck,  but  from    the 

castle  a  cry 
Sounded  across  the  court,  aud  —  men-at- 
arms, 
A  score  with  pointed  lances,  making  at 

him  — 
He  dash'd  the  pummel  at  the  foremost 

face, 
Beneath  a  low  door  dipt,  and  made  his 

feet 
Wings  thro'  a  glimmering  gallery,  till  he 

niark'd 
The  portal  of  King  I'ellam's  chai)el  wide 
Aud  inward  to  the  wall;  he  stept  behind; 
Thence   in  a  moment   heard   them    pass 

like  wolves 
Howling ;  but  wliile  he  stared  about  the 

shrine. 
In  which  he  scarce  could  spy  the  Christ 

for  Saints, 
Beheld  before  a  golden  altar  lie 
The  longest  lauce  his  eyes  luid  ever  seen, 
Point-painted  red  ;  and  seizing  thereupon 
Push'd   thro'   an   open   casement   down, 

lean'd  on  it,, 
Leapt  in  a  semicircle,  and  lit  on  earth ; 
Then  hand  at  car,  and  barkening  from 

wh;U  side 
The    bliudt'old    rummage    buried    in    the 

walls 
Might  echo,  ran  the  counter   path,  and 

found 
His  charger,  mounted  on  him  and  away. 
An  arrow  whizz'd  to  the  right,  one  to 

the  left, 
One  overhead  ;  and  Pellam's  feeble  cry, 
"  Stay,   stay    him !    he   defileth    heavenly 

things 
With  earthly  uses  "  —  made  him  quickly 

dive 
Beneath    the    boughs,    and    race    thro' 

many  a  mile 


Of  dense  and  open,  till  his  goodly  horse. 
Arising  wearily  at  a  fallen  oak. 
Stumbled  headlong,  aud  cast  him  face  to 

ground. 
Half-wroth  he  had  not  ended,  but  all 

glad, 
Knightlike,  to  find  his  charger  yet  un 

lamed, 
Sir    Balin    drew  the  shield"  from  off  hie 

neck, 
Stared   at  the    priceless  cognizance,  and 

thought : 
"  I  have  shamed  thee  so  that  now  thou 

shamest  me, 
Thee  will  I  bear  no  more,"  high  ou  a 

branch 
Hung  it,  and  turu'd  aside  into  the  woods, 
And    there    in   gloom   cast    himself   all 

along, 
Moaning,  "  My  violences,  my  violences!" 
But  now  the  wholesome  music  of  the 

wood 
Was  dumb'd  by  one  from  out  the  hall  of 

Mark, 
A  damsel-errant,  warbling,  as  she  rode 
The  woodland   tvlleys,  Vivien,  with   her 

Squire. 
"  The   (ire   of    Heaven    has   kill'd   the 

barren  cold, 
And  kindled  all   the    plain   aud    all   the 

wold. 
The  new  leaf  ever  ])ushes  off  the  old. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell. 
Old   priest,  who  mumble   worship    in 

your  quire  — 
Old  monk  and  nun,  ye  scorn  the  world's 

desire. 
Yet  in  your  frosty  cells  ye  ieel  the  fire! 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell. 
The   fire   of   Heaven   is  on  the   dusty 

ways. 
The  wayside  blossoms  open  to  the  blaze. 
The  whole  wood-world  is  one  full  peal  o:: 

praise. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the   flame  of 

Hell. 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  lord  of  all  things 

good. 
And  starve  not  thou  this  fire  within  thy 

blood. 
But  follow  Vivien  thro'  the  fiery  flood  ! 
The  fire  of  Heaven  is  not  the  flame  of 

Hell ! ;' 
Then  turning  to  her  Squire,  "  This  fire 

of  Heaven, 
This  old  sun-worship,  boy,  will  rise  again, 


694 


BALIN  AND  BALAN. 


And  beat  the  cross  to  earth,  and  break 

the  Kiu;^ 
And  all  hid  Table." 

Then  they  reach'd  a  glade, 
Where  under  one  long  lane  of  cloudless 

air 
Before  another  wood,  the  royal  crown 
Sparkled,  and  swaying   upon   a  restless 

elm 
Drew  the  vague  glance   of    Vivien,  and 

her  Squire  ; 
Amazed   were   these;    'Lo   there,"   she 

cried  —  "a  crown  — 
Borne    by    some    high    lord -prince    of 

Arthur's  hall, 
And  there  a  horse  !  the  rider  ?    where  is 

hel 
See,  yonder    lies  one    dead   withiti    the 

wood. 
Not  dead  ;  he  stirs  !  —  but   sleeping.     I 

will  speak. 
Hail,  royal  knight,  we  break  on  thy  sweet 

rest, 
Not,   doubtless,   all    unearn'd    by   noble 

deeds. 
But  bouuden  art  thou,  if  from  Arthur's 

hall. 
To  help  tlie  weak.     Behold,  I  fly  from 

shame, 
A  lustful  King,  who  sought  to  win   my 

love 
Thro'  evil  ways  :  the  knight,  with  whom 

I  rode, 
Hath    suffer'd    misadventure,    and    my 

squire 
Hath  in  him  small  defence ;  but  thou,  Sir 

Prince, 
Wilt   surely    guide    me    to    the    warrior 

King, 
Arthur  the  blameless,  pure  as  any  maid. 
To  get  me  shelter  for  my  maidenhood. 
I  charge    thee  by  that  crown  u])on  thy 

shield. 
And  by   the  great  Queen's  name,  arise 

and  hence." 
And   Balin    rose,   "  Thither  no    more ! 

nor  Prince 


Which  our  high  Lancelot  hath  so  lifted 

up. 
And  been  thereby  uplifted,  should  thro' 

me. 
My  violence,   and   my  villainy,  come  to 

shame." 
Thereat    she    suddenly    laugh'd    and 

shrill,  anon 
Sigh'd  all  as  suddenly.     Said  Baliu  tc 

her, 
"  Is  this  thy  courtesy — to  mock  me,  ha" 
Hence,  for  I  will  not  with  thee."     Again 

she  sigh'd, 
"Pardon,  sweet  lord!  we  maidens  often 

laugh 
When   sick    at   heart,   when    rather    we 

should  weep. 
I  knew  thee  wrong'd.     I  brake  upon  thy 

rest. 
And   now  full   loth   am   I  to  break  thy 

dream, 
But   thou  arc   man,   and   canst   abide  a 

truth, 
Tho'   bitter.     Hither,   boy  —  and  mark 

me  well. 
Dost  thou  rem^ember  at  Caerleon  once  r- 
A  year  ago —  nay,  then  I  love  thee  not  — 
Ay,  thou  rememberest  well  —  one  sum- 
mer dawn  — 
Bv    the    great    tower  —  Caerleon    upon 

Usk  — 
Nav,    truly   we    were    hidden  :   this   fair 

lord. 
The  flower  of  all  their  vestal  knighthood, 

knelt 
la  amorous  homage —  knelt  —  what  else  1 

-Oay 
Knelt,  and  drew  down  from  out  his  night- 
black  hair 
And  mumbled    that   white   hand    whose 

riug'd  caress 
Had    wander'd    from    her    own    King's 

golden  head, 
And    lost    itself    in    darkness,    till    she 

cried  — 
I  thought  the   great   tower  would  crash 

down  on  both  — 


Nor  knight  am  1,  but  one  that  hath  de-  |  '  Rise,  my  sweet  King,  and   kiss  me  on 


famed 


the  lips, 


The   cognizance   she   gave   me :    here   I     Thou    art   my  King.'     This   lad,    whose 


dwell 
Savage   among   the   savage  woods,  here 

die  — 
Die  :  let  the  wolves'  black  maws  ensepul- 

chre 
Their  brother  beast,  whose  anger  was  his 

lord. 
O  me,  that  such  a  name  as  Guinevere's, 


lightest  word 
Is  mere  white  truth  in  simple  nakedness. 
Saw  them  embrace :  he  reddens,  cannot 

speak, 
So    bashful,    he !    but    all    the    maiden 

Saints, 
The    deathless    mother- maidenhood    of 

Heaven 


BALIN   AND   BALAN. 


695 


Cry  out  upon  her.     Up  then,  ride  with 

me ! 
Talk  not  of  shame !  thou  canst  not,  an 

thou  would'st. 
Do  these  more  sliame  than   these   have 

done  themselves." 
She  lied  with  ease;  but  horror-stricken 

he, 
Remembering  that  dark  bower  at  Came- 

lot, 
Breatlied   in   a   dismal   w^hisper,    "  It   is 

truth." 
Sunnily  slif  smiled,  "  And  even  in  this 

lotie  wood, 
Sweet  lord,  ye  do  right  well  to  whisper 

this. 
Fools  prate,  and  perish  traitors.     Woods 

have  tongues, 
As  walls  have  ears:  but  thou  shalt   go 

with  me. 
And  we  will  speak  at  first  exceeding  low. 
Meet   is   it   the   good  King   be  not   de- 
ceived. 
See   now,    I   set   thee   high   on    vantage 

ground 


Guard  thou  thine  head."   SirBalin  spake 

not  word. 
But  snatch 'd  a  sudden  buckler  from  the 

iSquire, 
And  vaulted  on  his  horse,  and  so  they 

crash'd 
In  onset,  and  King  Pellam's  holy  spear, 
Heputtd  t)  be  red  with  sinless  blood, 
liedden'd   at  once   with   sinful,   for    the 

point 
Across  tiie  maiden  shield  of  Balan  prick'd 
The   hauberk   to   tiie   fiesii ;  and    Baliu's 

horse 
Was  wearied  to  the  death,  and,  when  ihej' 

clash'd. 
Rolling    back    upon    Balin,    crush'd    the 

man 
Inward,   and    eitlier   fell,    and    swoon'd 

away. 
Then  to  her  Squire  tnutter'd  the  damsel, 

"  Fools  ! 
This  fellow  hath  wrought  some  foulness 

with  his  Queen  : 
Else  never  had  he  borne  her  crown,  nor 

raved 


From   whence    to   watch   the   time,   and     And  thus  foam'd  over  at  a  rival  name  : 


eagle  like 
Stoop    at   thy   will   on    Lancelot  and  the 

Queen." 
She  ceased  ;  his  evil  spirit  upon  him 

leapt, 
He  ground  his  teeth  together,  sprang  with 

a  yell. 
Tore  from  the  branch,  and  cast  on  earth, 

the  shield, 
Drove  his  mail'd  heel  athwart  the  royal 

crown, 
Stampt    all   into    defacement,   hnrl'd   it 

from  him 
Among  the  forest  weeds,  and  cursed  the 

tale, 
The  told-of,  and  the  teller. 

That  weird  yell, 
JJnearthlier  than   all   shriek   of   bird  or 

beast, 
Thrill'd  thro'  the  woods  ;  and  Balan  lurk- 
ing; there 
(His  quest   was   unaccomplish'd)    heard 

iind  thought, 
"  The  scream  of  that  Wood-devil  I  came 

to  quell !  " 
Then  nearing,  "  Lo  !  he  hath  slain  some 

brother-knight, 


But   thou,    Sir   Cliiek,    that  scarce  hast 

i)roken  shell, 
Art  yet   half -yolk,   not    even  ecme   to 

down  — 
Wiio  never  sawest  Caerleon  upon  Usk  — 
And  yet  hast  often  pleaded  for  my  love  — 
See  what  I  see,  be  thou  where  I  have 

been. 
Or  else  Sir  Chick  —  dismount  and  loose 

their  casques, 
I  fain  would  know  what  manner  of  men 

they  be  " 
And  when  the  Squire  had  loosed  them, 

"  Goodly  !  —  look  ! 
They  miuht  have  cropt  the  myriad  flower 

of  May, 
And  butt  each  other  here,  like  braiulesE 

bulls. 
Dead  for  one  heifer !  " 

Then  the  gentle  Squire 
"  I  hold  them  happy,  so  they  died   loi 

love : 
And,  Vivien,  tho'  ye  beat  me  like  your 

dog, 
I  too  could  die,  as  now  I  live,  for  thee." 
"  Live  on,  Sir  Boy,"  she  cried.    "  I  better 

prize 


And    tr.amples  on   the   goodly   shield  to  !  The   living    dog    than    the    dead    lion: 

show  I  away ! 

His  loathing  of  our  Order  and  the  Queen.  '  I  cannot  brook  to  gaze  upon  the  dead." 
My  quest,  meseems,  is  here.    Or  devil  or  |  Then  leapt   her  palfrey  o'er  the  fallen 

man  |  oak. 


696 


PROLOGUE  TO  GENERAL  HAMLEY. 


And  bounding  forward,  "  Leave  them  to 

the  wolves." 
But  when  their  foreheads  felt  the  cool- 
ing air, 
Balin   firrit   woke,   and   seeing  that  true 

face, 
Familiar  up  from  cradle-time,  so  wan, 
Crawl'd  slowly  with  low  moans  to  where 

he  lay, 
And  on  his  dying  brother  cast  himself 
Dying  ;  and  he  lifted  faint  eyes  ;  he  felt 
One  near  him;  all  at  once  they  found  the 

world, 
Staring  wild-wide  ;  then  with  a  childlike 

wail, 
And  drawing  down  the   dim   disastrous 

brow 
That  o'er  him  hung,  he  kiss'd  it,  moan'd 

and  spake  ; 
"  O  Balin,  Balin,  I,  that  fain  had  died 
To  save  thy  life,   have  brought  thee  to 

thy  death. 
Why  had  ye  not  the  shield  I  knew  ^  and 

why 
Trampled  ve  thus  on  that  which  bare  the 

Crown  1 " 
Then  Balin  told  him  brokenly,  and  in 

gasps. 
All  that  had  chanced,  and  Balan  moan'd 

again. 
"  Brother,  I  dwelt  a  day  in  Pellam's 

hall : 
This  Garlon  mock'd  me,  but  I   heeded 

not. 
And  one  said,  '  Eat  in  peace  !  a  iiar  is  he. 
And   hates   thee   for   the   tribute ! '    this 

good  knight 
Told   me,   that   twice  a   wanton  damsel 

came. 
And    sought   for   Garlou    at   the   castle- 
gates. 
Whom    Pellam    drove   away   with   holy 

heat. 
I  will  believe  this  damsel,  and  the  one 
Who   stood    beside    thee    even   now,  the 

same. 
'  She  dwells  among  the  woods,'  he  said, 

'  and  meets 
And  dallies  with  him  in   the  Mouth  of 

Hell.' 
Foul  are  their  lives ;  foul  are  their  lips ; 

they  lied. 
Pure   as   our   own   true   Mother   is    our 

Queen." 
"  0  brother,"  answer'd  Balin,  "  Woe  is 

nie ! 
My  madness   all   thy  life  has  been   thy 

doom. 


Thy  curse,  and   darken'd   all  thy  day; 

and  now 
The  night  has  come.     I  scarce  can  sec 

thee  now. 
Goodnight !  for  we  shall  never  bid  again 
Goodmorrow  —  Dark  my  doom  was  here, 

and  dark 
It   will    be   tliere.      I   see    thee   now   no 

more. 
I  would  not  mine   again  should  darkei 

thine, 
Goodnight,  true  brother." 

Balan  answer'd  low. 
"  Goodnight,    true    brother   here !   good- 
morrow  there! 
We  two  were  born  together,  and  we  die 
Together  by  one  doom :  "  and  while  he 

spoke 
Closed  his  death-drowsing  eyes,  and  slept 

the  sleep 
With  Balin,  either  lock'd  in  either's  arm. 


PROLOGUE     TO    GENERAL 
HAMLEY. 

Our  birches  yellowing  and  from  each 

The  light  leaf  falling  fast. 
While  squirrels  from  our  fiery  beech 

Were  bearing  off  the  mast. 
You  came,  and  look'd  and  loved  the  view 

Long-known  and  loved  Ijy  me, 
Green  Sussex  fading  into  blue 

With  one  gray  glimpse  of  sea  ; 
And,  gazing  from  this  height  alone, 

We  spoke  of  what  had  been 
Most  marvellous  in  the  wars  your  own 

Crimean  eyes  had  seen  ; 
And  now  —  like  old-world  inns  that  take 

Some  warrior  for  a  sign 
That  therewitbin  a  guest  may  make 

True  cheer  with  honest  wine  — 
Because  you  heard  the  lines  I  read 

Nor  utter'd  word  of  blame, 
I  dare  without  your  leave  to  head 

These  rhymings  with  your  name, 
Who  know  you  but  as  one  of  those 

I  fain  would  meet  again, 
Yet  know  you,  as  your  England  knows 

That  you  and  all  your  men 
Were  soldiers  to  her  heart's  desire. 

When,  in  the  vanish'd  year. 
You  saw  the  league-long  rampart-fire 

Flare  from  Tel-el-Kebir 
Thro'  darkness,  and  the  foe  was  driven, 

And  Wolseley  overthrew 
Arabi,  and  the  stars  in  heaven 

Paled,  and  the  glory  grew. 


THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 


697 


EPILOGUE 

IRENE. 

Not  this  way  will  you  set  your  name 
A  star  among  the  stars. 


What  way  1 

IRENE. 

You  praise  when  you  should  blame 
The  barbarism  of  wars. 
A  juster  epoch  has  begun. 


Yet  tho'  this  cheek  he  gray,. 
And  that  bright  hair  ihe  modern  sun, 

Those  eyes  the  blue  to-day, 
You  wrong  me,  passionate  little  friend. 

I  would  that  wars  should  cease, 
I  would  the  globe  from  end  to  end 

Might  sow  and  reap  in  jicace, 
And  some  new  Spirit  o'erbear  the  old. 

Or  Trade  re  f rain  the  Powers 
From  war  with  kindly  links  of  gold, 

Or  Love  with  wreaths  of  flowers. 
Slav,  Teuton,  Kelt,  I  count  them  all 

My  friends  and  brother  souls, 
With  all  the  peoples,  great  and  small, 

That  wheel  between  the  poles. 
But  since,  our  mortal  shadow.  111 

To  waste  this  earth  began  — 
Perchance  from  some  abuse  of  Will 

In  worlds  before  the  man 
Involving  ours  —  he  needs  must  fight 

To  make  true  peace  his  own, 
He  need-^  niu-t  combat  might  with  might, 

Or  Might  would  rule  alone ; 
And  who  loves  AVar  for  War's  own  sake 

Is  fool,  or  crazed,  or  worse  ; 
But  let  the  patriot-soldier  take 

His  meed  of  fame  in  verse  ; 
Nay  —  tho'  thnt  realm  were  in  the  wrong 

For  which  her  warriors  bleed, 
It  still  were  right  to  crown  with  song 

The  warrior's  noble  deed  — 
A  crown  the  Singer  hopes  may  last, 

For  so  the  deed  endures  ; 
But  Song  will  vanish  in  the  Vast ; 

And  that  large  phrase  of  yours, 
"  A  Star  among  the  stars."  my  dear, 

Is  girlish  talk  at  best ; 
For  dare  we  dally  with  the  sphere 

As  he  did  half  in  jest, 
Old  Horace  ?    "  I  will  strike."  said  he^ 

"  The  stars  with  head  sublime," 
But  scarce  could  see,  as  now  we  see 


The  man  in  Space  and  Time, 
So  drew  perchance  a  happier  lot 

Than  ours,  who  rhyme  to-day. 
The  fires  that  arch  this  dusky  dot  — • 

Yon  myriad-worlded  way  — 
The  vast  sun-clusters'  gather'd  blaze. 

World-isles  in  lonely  skies, 
Whole  heavens  within  themselves,  ama?; 

Our  brief  humanities; 
And  so  does  Earth  ;  for  Homer  s  fame, 

Tho'  carved  in  harder  stone  — 
The  falling  drop  will  make  his  name 

As  mortal  as  mv  own. 


No! 


IRENE. 
POET. 


Let  it  live  then  —  ay,  fill  when  ? 

Earth  passes,  all  is  lost 
In  what  they  prophesy,  our  wise  men, 

Sun  flame  or  sunless  frost, 
And  deed  aiul  song  alike  are  swept 

Away,  and  all  in  vain 
As  far  as  man  can  .see,  except 

The  man  himself  remain  ; 
And  tho',  in  this  lean  age  forlorn, 

Too  many  a  voice  may  cry 
That  num  can  have  no  after-morn. 

Not  yet  of  these  am  I. 
The  man  remains,  and  whatsoe'er 

He  wrought  of  good  or  brave 
Will  mould  him  thro'  the  cycle-year 

That  dawns  behind  the  grave. 


And  here  the  Singer  for  his  Art 

Not  all  in  vnin  may  plead, 
"  The  song  that  nerves  a  nation's  heart 

Is  in  itself  a  deed." 

Note. — The  Prologue  and  Epilogue  refer  to 
the  Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade,  p.  631. 

THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 

182-. 

I. 

Dead  ! 

And  the  Muses  cried  with  a  stormy  cry 
"  Send  them  no  more,  for  evermore. 
Let  the  people  die." 


Dead ! 

"  Is  it  he  then  brought  so  low  1  " 
And  a  careless    people    flock'd  from  the 
fields 

With  a  purse  to  pay  for  the  show 


698 


THE  DEAD  PROPHET. 


Dead,  who  had  served  his  time, 
Was  one  of  the  people's  kiugs, 

Had  hibor'd  in  lifting  them  out  of  slime, 
And  showing  them,  souls  have  wings ! 


Dumb  on  tlie  winter  heath  he  lay. 

His  friends  hud  stripthim  bare, 
And  roll'd  his  nakedness  every  way 

That  all  the  crowd  might  stare. 


A  storm-worn  signpost  not  to  be  read. 
And  a  tree  with  a  moulder'd  nest 

On  its  barkless  bones,  stood  stark  by  the 
dead  ; 
And  behind  him,  low  in  the  West, 


With   shifting   ladders    of   shadow    and 
light, 

And  blurr'd  in  color  and  form, 
The  sun  hung  over  the  gates  of  Night, 

And  glared  at  a  coming  storm. 


Then  glided  a  vulturous  Beldam  forth. 

That  on  dumb  death  had  thriven  ; 
They  call'd  her  "  Reverence  "  here  upon 
earth, 
And  '-The  Curse  of  the  Prophet"  in 
Heaven. 


She  knelt  —  "We  worship  him" —  all 
but  wept  — 
"  So  great  so  noble  was  he !  " 
She   clear'd    her    sight,   she    arose,   she 
swept 
The  dust  of  earth  from  her  knee. 


Great !  for  he  spoke  and  the   people 

heard, 
And  his  eloquence  caught  like  a  flame 


From  zone  to  zone  of  the  world,  till  his 
Word 
Had  won  him  a  noble  name. 


"  Noble !  he  sung,  and  the  sweet  sound  ram 
Thro'  palace  and  cottage  door, 

For  he  touch'd  on  the  wliole  sad  plane! 
of  man, 
The  kings  and  the  rich  and  the  poor ; 


"  And  he  sung  not  alone  of  an  old  sun  set, 
But  a  sun  coming  up  in  his  youth ! 

Great  and  noble  —  O  yes  —  but  yet  — 
For  man  is  a  lover  of  Truth. 


"  And  bound  to  follow,  wherever  she  go 
Stark-naked,  and  up  or  down, 

Tliro'   her   high   hill-passes    of    stainless 
snow. 
Or  the  foulest  sewer  of  the  town  — 


"  Noble  and  great  —  O  ay  —  but  then, 
Tho'  a  prophet  should  have  his  due, 

Was    he    noblier  -  fashiou'd    than    other 
men  1 
Shall  we  see  to  it,  I  and  you  ? 


XIV. 

"For  since  he  would  sit  on  a  Prophet's 
seat, 
As  a  lord  of  the  Human  soul, 
We  needs  must  scan  him  from  head  tc 
feet 
Were  it  but  for  a  wart  or  a  mole  ?  " 


His  wife  and  his  child  stood  by  him  in 
tears, 
But  she  —  she  push'd  them  aside. 
"  Tho'  a  name  may  last  for  a  thousand 
years. 
Yet  a  truth  is  a  truth,"  she  cried. 


HELEN'S   TOWER. 


699 


XVI. 

And  she  that  had  hauntea  his  pathway- 
still, 
Had  oftei.  truckled  and  cower'd 
When    ho   rose    in   his   wrath,  and   had 
yielded  her  will 
To  the  master,  as  overpower'd, 


She  tiiml)led  his  helpless  corpse  about. 

"  Sm;ill  blemish  upon  the  skin  ! 
But  I  tliink  we  know  what  is  fair  without 

Is  ofteu  as  foul  within." 


She  crouch'd,   she   tore   him  part  from 
part. 
And  out  of  his  body  she  dr<'w 
The  red   "Blood-eagle"*   of   liver  and 
heart ! 
She  held  them  up  to  the  view-, 


She  gabbled,  as  she  groped  in  the  dead. 
And  all  the  jicople  were  pleased; 

**  See,  what  a  little  heart,"  she  said, 
"  And  the  liver  is  half-diseased !  " 


She  tore  the  Prophet  after  death, 
And  the  ])eo|ile  ])ai(l  her  well. 

Lightnings  flicker'd  along  the  heath; 
Oue  shriek'd,  "  The  fires  of  Hell  1 " 


PREFATORY    POEM    TO    MY 
BROTHER'S  SONNETS. 

Midnight,  June  30,  1879. 


Midnight  —  in  no  midsummer  tune 
The  breakers  lash  the  shores  : 
The  cuckoo  of  a  joyless  June 
Is  calling  out  of  doors  : 

*  Old  Viking  torm  for  lungs,  liver,  etc.,  when 
torn  by  the  conqueror  ouf  o£  the  bod/  of  th?  con- 
quered. 


And  thou  hast  vanish'd  from  thine  own 
To  that  which  looks  like  rest, 
True  brother,  only  to  be  known 
By  those  who  love  thee  best.   . 


Midnight  —  and  joyless  June  gone 
And  from  the  deluged  park 
The  cuckoo  of  a  worse  July 
Is  calling  thro'  the  dark  . 

But  thou  art  silent  underground. 
And  o'er  thee  streams  the  rain, 
Trui'  poet,  surely  to*bc  found 
When  Truth  is  found  again. 


And,  now  to  these  unsummer'd  skies 
The  summer  bird  is  still, 
Far  off  a  phantom  cuckoo  cries 
From  out  a  pliantoni  hill ; 

And  thro'  this  midnight  breaks  the  sun 
Of  sixty  years  away, 
The  light  of  days  when  life  begun, 
The  days  that  seem  to  day, 

Wlien   all    my   griefs   were  shared  with 

thee, 
As  all  my  hojtes  were  thine  — 
As  nil  thou  wcrt  was  one  with  me. 
May  all  thou  art  be  mine  1 


HELEN'S  TOWER.t 

Helen's  Towek,  here  I  stand, 
Dominant  over  sea  and  land. 
Son's  love  built  me,  and  I  hold 
Mother's  love  engrav'n  in  gold. 
Love  is  in  and  out  of  time, 
I  am  mortal  stone  and  lime. 
Would  my  granite  girth  were  strong 
As  either  love,  to  Inst  as  long! 
I  should  wear  my  crown  entire 
To  and  thro'  the  Doomsday  fire, 
And  be  found  of  angel  eyes 
In  earth's  recurrino;  Paradi.se. 


t  Written  at  the  request  of  xn\  friend,  Lord 
Duffarin 


700 


FREEDOM. 


EPITAPH  ON  LORD  STRATFORD 
DE  REDCLIFFE. 

IN    WESTIIINSTER    ABBEY. 

Thou  third  great  Canning,  stand  among 
our  best 
And  noblest,  now  thy  long  day's  work 
hath  ceased, 
Here  silent  in  our  Minster  of  the  West 
Who  wert  the  voice  of  England  in  the 
East. 


EPITAPH  ON  GENERAL  GORDON. 

FOR    A    CENOTAPH. 

Warrior  of  God,  man's  friend,  not  laid 
below, 
But  somewhere  dead  far  in  the  waste 
Soudan, 
Thou  livest  in   all    hearts,    for   all    men 
know 
This  earth  has  borne  no  simpler,  nobler 
man. 

EPITAPH  ON  CAXTON. 

IN  ST.  Margaret's,  Westminster. 

FIAT  LUX  (his  motto). 

Thy  prayer  was  "  Light  —  more   Light 

—  while  Time  shall  Inst !  " 
Thou    sawest   a  glory    growing   on   the 

night, 
Bnt   not   the   shadows   which  that  light 

would  cast, 
Till    shadows   vanish    in    the    Light    of 

Light. 

TO  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLL. 


0  Patriot  Statesman,  be  thou  wise  to 
know 

The  limits  of  resistance,  and  the  bounds 

Determining  concession  ;  still  be  bold 

Not    only    to   slight    praise    but    suffer 
scorn  ; 

And   be   thy   heart   a   fortress  to  main- 
tain 

The  day  against  the  moment,  and  the 
year 

Against   the    day  ;   thy   voice,   a   music     Who  yet,  like  Nature,  wouldst  not  mar 
heard  1       By  changes  all  too  fierce  and  fast 


Thro'  all  the  yells  and  counter-yells  of 
feud 

And  faction,  and  thy  will,  a  power  to 
make 

This  ever -changing  world  of  circum- 
stance, 

In  changing,  chime  with  never-changing 
Law. 


FREEDOM. 


0  thou  so  fair  in  summers  gone. 
While  yet  thy  fresh  and  virgin  soui 

Inform'd  the  pillar'd  Parthenon, 
The  glittering  Capitol ; 


So  fair  in  southern  sunshine  bathed. 
But  scarce  of  such  majestic  mien 

As  here  with  forehead  vapour-swathed 
In  meadows  ever  green  ; 


For  thou  —  when    Athens   reign'd    and 
Rome, 
Thy  glorious  eyes  were  dimm'd  with 
pain 
To  mark  in  many  a  freeman's  home 
The  slave,  the  scourge,  the  chain; 


O  follower  of  the  Vision,  still 
In  motion  to  the  distant  gleam, 

Howe'er  blind  force  and  brainless  will 
May  jar  thy  golden  dream 


Of  Knowledge  fusing  class  with  class, 
Of  civic  Hate  no  more  to  be. 

Of  Love  to  leaven  all  the  ma.ss, 
Till  every  Soul  be  free ; 


TO   H.   R.    H.   PRINCESS   BEATRICE. 


701 


This  order  of  Her  Human  Star, 

This  heritage  of  the  past, 


0  sconier  of  the  jiariy  cry 

That  wanders  from  the  public  good, 
Thou  — wlien  the  nations  rear  on  high 

Their  idol  smear'd  with  blood. 


And  when  they  roll  their  idol  down  — 
Of  saner  worship  sanely  proud ; 

Thou  loather  of  the  lawless  crown 
As  of  the  lawless  crowd  ; 


How  long  thine  ever-growing  mind 

Hath  still'd  the  blast  and  strown  the 
wave, 

The'  some  of  late  would  raise  a  wind 
To  sing  thee  to  tliy  grave, 


Men  loud  against  all  forms  of  power  — 
Unfurnisli'd       brows,       temi)estuous 
tongues  — 

Expecting  all  things  in  an  hour  - 
Brass  mouths  and  iron  lungs ! 


TO  H.  R.  H.  PRINCESS  BEATRICE. 

Two  Suns  of  Love  make  dav  of  human 

life. 
Which  else  with  all  its  pains,  and  griefs, 

and  deaths, 
Were  utter  darkness  —  one,  the  Sun  of 

dawn 
That  brightens  thro'  tlie  Mother's  tender 

eyes. 
And  warms  the  child's  awakenii!g  world 

—  and  one 
The  later-rising  Sun  of  spousal  Love, 
Which  from  her  household  orbit  draws 

tlie  child 
To  move  in  other  spheres.     The  Mother 

weeps 


At  that  white  funeral  of  the  single  life. 
Her   maiden    daughter's   marriage ;   and 

her  tears 
Are  half  of  pleasure,  half  of  pain  —  the 

child 
Is   happy  —  ev'n    in   leaving  her !    but 

Thou, 
True  daughter,   whose  all-faithful,  filial 

eyes 
Have     seen    the    loneliness    of   earthly 

thrones, 
Wilt  neither  quit  the  widow'd  Crown,  nor 

let 
This   later   light  of  Love  have  risen  in 

vain. 
But   moving   thro'    the   Mothers    home, 

between 
The  two  that  love  thee,  lead  a  summer 

life, 
Sway'd  by  each  Love,  and   swaying  to 

each  Love, 
Like   some   conjectured    planet    in    mid 

heaven 
Between   two  Suns,  and  drawing  down 

from  both 
The  light  ?.nd  genial  warmth  of  double 

day. 


SONNET. 

Old  poets  foster'd  under  friendlier  skies, 
Old  Virgil  who  would  write  ten  lines, 

they  say, 
At  dawn,  and   lavish   all   the   golden 
day 
To  make  them  wealthier  in  his  readers' 

eyes ; 
And  you,  old   jiopular  Horace,  you  the 
wise 
Adviser  of  the  nine-years-ponder'd  lay. 
And  you,  that  wear  a  wreath  of  sweeter 
bay, 
Catullus,  whose  dead  songster  never  dies  ; 
If,   glancing    downward   on    the   kindly 
sphere 
That  once  had  roll'd  you  round  and 

round  the  Sun, 
You  see  your  Art  still  shrined  in  hu- 
man shelves. 
You  should  be  jubilant  that  you  flourish'd 
here 
Before  the  Love  of  Letters,  overdone, 
Had  swampt  the  sacred  poets  with  them- 
selves. 


702 


VASTNESS. 


VASTNESS. 


Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe 
sighs  after  many  a  vauish'd 
face, 

Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll 
with  the  dust  of  a  vanish'd  race. 


Raving  politics,  never  at  rest  —  as  this 
poor  earth's  pale  history  runs,  — 

What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in 
the  gleam  of  a  million  million  of 
suns? 


Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side, 

truthless  violence   mourn'd  by  the 

Wise, 
Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own 

in  a  popular  torrent  of  lies  upon 

lies  ; 


IV. 


Stately  purposes,  valor  in  battle,  glorious 
annals  of  army  and  fleet. 

Death  for  the  right  cause,  death  for  the 
wrong  cause,  trumpets  of  victory, 
groans  of  defeat ; 


Innocence  seethed  in  her  mother's  milk, 

and    Charity   setting    the   martyr 

aflame ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with  the  banner  of 

Freedom,  and  recks  not  to  ruin  a 

realm  in  her  name. 


Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the 

gloom  of  doubts  that   darken  the 

schools ; 
Craft  with   a   bunch  of  all-heal   in    her 

hand,  follow M   up   by   her  vassal 

legion  of  fools ; 


VII. 


Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with 
her  s])ice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk 
and  her  corn  ; 

Desolate  oftiug,  sailorless  harbors,  fam- 
ishing populace,  wharves  forlorn; 


Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise ; 
gloom  of  the  evening.  Life  at  a 
close ; 

Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  down- 
way  with  her  flying  robe  and  her 
poison'd  rose; 


Pain,  that  has  crawl'd  from  the  corpse  of 

Pleasure,  a  worm  which  writhes  all 

day,  and  at  night 
Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper, 

and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse 

of  the  light  I 


Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded 
harlots ;  honest  Poverty,  bare  to 
the  bone ; 

Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty  ;  Flat- 
iel•^[  gilding  the  rift  of  a  throne; 


Fame  blowing  out  froiii  her  golden  trum- 
pet a  jubilant  challenge  to  Time 
and  to  Fate ; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on 
all  the  laurel'd  graves  of  the 
Great ; 


Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with  mar- 
riage, no  regrets  for  aught  that  has 
been, 

Household  happiness,  gracious  children, 
debtless  competence,  golden  mean : 


ADDITIONAL  VERSES. 


703 


National  hatreds  of   whole   generations, 

and   pigmy   spites   of   the   village 

spire ; 
Vows  that  will   last   to   the   lust  death- 

iDckle,  and  vows  that  are  suapt  iu 

a  moment  of  tire  ; 


He  that  has  lived  for  the  lust  of  the  min- 

nte,  and  died  in  the  doing  it,  t^e^h 

without  mind  ; 
He  that  has  nail'd  all  faith  to  the  Cross, 

till  Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his 

kind ; 


Spring  and  Summer  and  Autumn  and 
Winter,  and  all  these  old  revolu- 
tions of  earth ; 

All  new  -  old  revolutions  of  Empire  — 
ehi\ni:e  of  tide  —  what  is  all  of  it 
worth  f 


What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences, 
poesy,  varying  \  oices  of  prayer  ? 

All  that  is  iiol)le>t,  all  that  is  basest,  all 
that  is  tihhy  with  all  that  is  fair  ? 


What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in 

being   our   own   corpse -coffins   at 

last, 
Swallow'd   in  Vastness,  lost   in    Silence, 

drown'd   in  the  deeps  of  a  mean- 

iuo-lcss  Fast  ■? 


XVIII. 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the 
gloom,  or  a  moment's  anger  of 
bees  in  their  hive  ?  — 


Peace,  let  it  be!  for  I  lo\ed  him,  and 
love  him  for  ever :  the  dead  are 
not  dead  but  alive- 


ON  CAMBRIDGE  UNIVERSITY. 

Therefore  your  Halls,  your  ancient 
Colleges, 

Your  portals  statued  with  old  kings  and 
queens, 

Your  gardens,  myriad-volumed  libra- 
ries, 

Wax -lighted  chapels,  and  rich  carven 
screens. 

Your  doctors  and  your  proctors,  and 
your  deans 

Shall  not  avail  you,  when  the  Daybeam 
sports 

New-risen  o'er  awaken'd  Albion  —  No! 

Nor  yet  your  solenm  organ-pipes  that 
blow 

Melodious  thunders  thro'  your  vacant 
courts 

At  morn  and  eve  —  because  your  man- 
ner sorts 

Not  with  this  age  wherefrom  ye  stand 
apart  — 

Because  the  lips  of  little  children  preach 

Against  vou,  you  that  do  profess  to 
teach 

And  teach  us  nothing,  feeding  not  the 
heart. 


SONNET. 

There  are  three  things  which  fill  my 
heart  with  sighs, 

And  steep  my  soul  iu  laughter  (when  I 
view 

Fair  maiden-forms  moving  like  melo- 
dies) — 

Dimples,  roselips,  and  eyes  of  any  hue. 

There  are  three  tilings  beneath  the 
blessed  skies 

For  which  I  live  —  black  eyes  and  brown 
and  blue : 

I  hold  them  all  most  dear:  but  oh! 
black  eyes, 

I  live  and  die,  and  only  die  iu  you. 

Of  late  such  eyes  looked  at  me  —  while 
I  mused. 

At  sunset,  underneath  a  shadowy  plane. 

In  old  Bayona  nigh  the  southern  sea  — 

I  saw  no  more  — only  those  eyes  — con- 
fused 

And  dazzled  to  the  heart  with  glorious 
paia 


704 


ODE. 


LINES. 

Here   often,  when   a  child,  I  lay  re- 
clined, 
I  took  deliglit  in  this  locality. 
Here  stood  the  infant  Ilion  of  the  mind, 
And  here  the  Grecian  ships  di<l  seem 
to  be. 
And  here  again  I  come,  and  only  find 
The   drain-cut   levels  of  the  marshy 
lea, — 
Gray  sand-banks,  and  pale  sunsets, — 
dreary  wind. 
Dim  shores,  dense  rains,  and  heavy- 
clouded  sea! 


ADDITIONAL   VERSES 

To  "  God  Save  the  Queen  I  "  written  for  the 
marriage  of  the  Princess  Royal  of  England 
with  the  Crown  Prince  of  Prussia,  January 
25, 1858. 

God  bless  our  Prince  and  Bride! 
God  keep  their  lands  allied, 

God  save  the  Queen ! 
Clothe  them  with  righteousness. 
Crown  them  with  happiness, 
Them  with  all  blessings  bless, 

God  save  the  Queen ! 

F?jr  fall  this  haliow'd  hour. 
Farewell,  our  England's  flower, 

God  save  the  Queen  ! 
Farewell,  first  rose  of  May ! 
Let  both  the  peoples  say, 
God  bless  thy  marriage-day, 

God  bless  the  Queen  ! 


ODE. 

Written  for  the  opening  of  the  Colonial  and  In- 
dian Exhibition,  iMay  4,  1886. 


Welcome,  welcome  with  one  voice  1 
In  your  welfare  we  rejoice. 


Sons  and  brothers,  that  have  sent, 
From  isle  and  cape  and  continent. 
Produce  of  your  field  and  flood. 
Mount,  and  mine,  and  primal  wood. 
Works  of  subtle  brain  and  hand, 
And  splendors  of  the  Morning  Land, 
Gifts  from  every  British  zone  ! 

Britons,  hold  your  own  i 


May  we  find,  as  ages  run. 
The  mother  featured  in  the  son, 
And  may  yours  for  ever  be 
That  old  strength  and  constancy, 
Which  has  made  your  fathers  great 
In  our  ancient  island-state  ! 
And  —  where'er  her  flag  may  fly 
Glorying  between  sea  and  sky  — 
Makes  the  might  of  Britain  known  ! 
Britons,  hold  your  own  ! 


Britain  fought  her  sons  of  yore, 
Britain  fail'd;  and,  never  more, 
Careless  of  our  growing  kin, 
Shall  we  sin  our  father's  sin, 
Men  that  in  a  narrower  day  — 
Unprophetic  rulers  they  — 
Drove  from  out  the  Mother's  nest 
That  Yoimg  Eagle  of  the  West, 
To  forage  for  herself  alone  ! 

Britons,  hold  your  own  I 


Sharers  of  our  glorious  past, 
Brotiiers,  must  we  part  at  last  ? 
Shall  not  we  thro'  good  and  ill 
Cleave  to  one  another  still  ? 
Britain's  myriad  voices  call : 
"  Sons,  be  welded,  each  and  all. 
Into  one  Imperial  whole, 
One  with  Britain  heart  and  soul ! 
One  life,  one  flag,  one  fleet,  one  Throne ! 
Britons,  hold  your  own  ! 

And  God  guard  all! 


BECKET. 


705 


BECKET. 


TO  THE  LORD  CIIANCELLOK, 

THE   RIGHT   HONORABLE   EARL  OF  SELBORNE. 

Mr  DEAR  Selborne,  —  To  yju,  the  honored  Chancellor  of  our  own  day,  1  dedicate  this  dra- 
matic memorial  of  your  great  predecessor ;  —  which,  altho"  not  intended  in  its  present  form  to 
meet  the  exigencies  of  our  modern  theatre,  has  nevertheless  —  for  so  you  have  assured  me  — 
won  your  approbation.  Ever  yours,  TE>;MYSOiJ. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONyE. 

Henry  II.  {son  of  the  Ear!  of  Aiijoii). 

Thomas  Becket,   ChnnctUor  of  England,  a/terwarUs  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
Gilbert  Foliot,  Bisliop  of  London 
Roger,  Arc/ibis/tuji  of  York. 
Bishop  of  Hireford. 
Hilary,  Bishop  of  Chichester. 
JOCELYN,   Bishop  of  Salisbury. 
John  OP  Salisbury,     I    p^iends  of  Becket. 
Herbert  of  Bosqam,  )  ■' 

Walter  .AIap,  reputed  author  of  "  Golias,"  Latin  poems  against  the  priesthood. 
King  Louis  op  France. 
Geoffuey,  son  of  Bosirmund  and  Henry. 
Grim,  a  monk  of  Cumbrulge. 
Sir  Reginald   Fitzukse,   | 

Sir  Richard  de  Rrito,      1    ,^^  f^^^  kninhls  of  the  King's  household,  enemies  of  Becket. 
Sir  William  de  Tracy,     f        j  "        j 

Sir  High  de  Morville,    J 
De  Broc  of  Saltwood  Castle. 
Lord  Leicester, 
Philip  de  Eleemosyna. 
Two  Knight  Templars. 
John  of  Oxford  {called  the  Sivearer). 

Eleanor  of  AquitAine,   Queen  of  England  {divorced  from  Louis  of  France). 
Rosamund  ds  Cufford. 
Margery. 

Knights,  Monks,  Beggars,  etc. 


PROLOGUE. 

A  Caslle  in  Nonnandi/.  Interior  of  the. 
Hall.  Roofs  of  a  City  seen  thro'  Win- 
doics. 

Henry  and  Becket  at  chess. 
Henry.    So  then  our  good  Arclibishop 
Theobald 
Lies  dying. 

Becket.     I   am  grieved    to   know   as 

much. 
Henry.    But  we  must  have  a  mightier 
man  than  lie 
For  his  successor. 


Becket.     Have  you  thought  of  one  ? 
Henry.     A  cleric  lately  poison'd  his 
own  mother. 
And  being  brought  before  the  courts  of 

the  Church, 
They  but  degraded  him.     I  hope  they 

whipt  him. 
I  would  have  hang'd  him. 

Becket.  It  is  your  move. 

Henry.  Well  —  there. 

'[Moves. 
The  Church  m  the  pell-mell  of  Stephen's 
time 


706 


BECKET. 


Hath   climb'd   the  throne    and   almost 

clutch'd  the  crown ; 
But  by  the  royal  custonis  of  our  realm 
The  Church  should  hold  her  barouies  of 

me, 
Like  other  lords  amenable  to  law. 
I'll  have  them  written  down  and  made 
the  law. 
Becket.     My  liege,  I  move  my  bishop. 
llenrtj.  And  if  I  live, 

No  man  without  my  leave  shall  excom- 
municate 
My  tenants  or  my  household. 

Becket.  Look  to  your  king. 

Henry.     No   man,  wiiliout  my  leave, 
shall  cross  the  seas 
To  set  the   Pope  against  me  —  I  pray 
your  pardon. 
Becket.     Well  —  will  you  move  ? 
Eenrij.  There. 

\Mnros. 
Becket.  Check  —  you  move  so  wildly. 
Henry.     There  then  !  \Moves. 

Becket.     Wily  —  there  then,  for  you 
see  my  bishop 
Hath  brought  your  king  to  a  standstill. 
You  are  beaten. 
Henry  (kicks  over  the  board).     Why, 
there  then  —  down  go  bishop  and 
king  togetiier. 
I  loathe  being  beaten  ;  had  I  fixt  my 

fancy 
Upon   the  game  I  should  have  beaien 

thee, 
But  that  was  vagabond. 

Becket.     Where,    my    liege?      With 

Phryne, 

Or  Lais,  or  thy  Rosamund,  or  another? 

Henry.      M}'    Rosamund    is  no   Lais, 

Thomas  Becket  ; 

And  yet  she  plagues  me  too  —  no  fault 

in  her  — 
But  that  I  fear  the  Queen  would  have 
her  life. 
Becket.    Put  her  away,  put  her  away, 
my  liege  ! 
I'ut  her  away  into  a  nunnery  ! 
Safe  enough  there  from  her  to  whom 

thou  art  bound 
By  Holy  Cliurch.  And  wherefore  should 

she  seek 
The  life  of  Rosamund  de  Clifford  more 
Than  that  of  otlier  paramours  of  thine? 
Henry.     How    dost   thou  know   I  am 

not  wedded  to  hert 
Becket.     How  sliould  I  know' 
Henry.     That  is  ray  secret,  Tliomas. 


Becket.    State  secrets  should  be  patent 
to  the  statesman 
Who   serves   and    loves   his   king,   and 

whom  the  king 
Loves  not  as  statesman,  but  true  lover 
and  friend. 
Henry.     Come,   come,   thou   art   buf 
deacon,  not  yet  bishop, 
Ng,  nor   archbishop,  nor  my  confessor 

yet. 
I  would  to  God  thou  wert,  for  I  should 

find 
An  easy  father  confessor  in  thee. 

Becket.     St.  Denis,  that  thou  shouldst 
not.     I  should  beat 
Thy  kingship  as  my  Ijishop  hath  beaten 
it. 
Henry.     Hell  take  thy  bishop  then, 
and  my  kingship  too  ! 
Come,   come,   I  love   thee  and  I  know 

thee,  I  know  thee, 
A    doter    on    white    pheasant-flesh   at 

feasts, 
A  sauce-deviser  for  tliy  days  of  fish, 
A  disii-designer,  and  most  amorous 
Of  good  old  red  sound  liberal  Gascon 

wine  : 
Will  not  tliy  body  rebel,  man,  if  thou 
Hatter  it  ? 
Becket.     That  palate  is  insane  which 
cannot  tell 
A  good  dish  from  a  bad,  new  wine  from 
old. 
Henry.     Well,  who  loves  wine  loves 

woman. 
Becket.  So  I  do. 

Men  are   God's  trees,  and  women   are 

God's  flowers  ; 
And  when  the  Gascon  wine  mounts  to 

my  head, 
The  trees  are  all  the  statelier,  and  the 

flowers 
Are  all  the  fairer. 

Henry.     And   thy   thoughts,  thy  fan- 
cies ? 
Becket.     Good    dogs,   my   liege,   well, 
train 'd,  and  easily  called 
Off  from  the  game. 

Henry.     Save  for  some  once  or  twice, 
When    they  ran   down    the   game  and 
worried  it. 
Becket.    No,  my  liege,  no  !  —  not  once 

—  in  God's  name,  no!  ' 

Henry.     Nay,  then,  I  take  thee  at  thy 
word  —  believe  thee 
The   \eriest   Galahad   of  old   Arthur's 
hall. 


BECKET. 


707 


And  so  this  "Rosamund,  my  true  heart- 
wife, 
Not   Eleanor  —  she   whom    I    love    in- 
deed 
As   a   woman  should  be  loved — Why 

dost  thou  smile 
So  dolorously  ? 

Becket.  My  good  liege,  if  a  man 

Wastes    himself    among    women,   how 

should  he  love 
A    woman,    as    a    woman    should    be 
loved  ? 
Henrij.      How    shouldst    thou    kno.v 
tliat  never  hast  loved  one  ? 
Come,  I  would  give  her  to  thy  care  in 

England 
When  I  am  out  in  Normandy  or  Anjou. 
Becket.     My  lord,  I  am  your  subject, 

not  your  — 
Henri/.  Pander. 

God's  eyes!  I  know  all  that  —  not  my 

})urveyor 
Of  pleasures,  but  to   save  a   life  —  her 

life; 
Ay,  and  the  soul  of  Eleanor  from  hell- 
fire. 
I  have  built  a  secret  bower  in  England, 

Thomas, 
A  nest  in  a  bush. 

Becket.  And  where,  my  liege  ? 

Henry  (whispers).  Thine  ear. 

Becket.     Tiiat  's  lone  enough. 
Henri/  (hying  paper  on  table).      This 
chart  here  mark'd  "  Her  Boioer," 
Take,  keep  it,  friend.     See,  first,  a  cir- 
cling wood, 
A    hundred    pathways    running    every 

way, 
And  then  a  brook,  a  bridge;  and  after 

that 
This   labyrinthine   brickwork    maze   in 

maze, 
And  then  another  wood,  and  in  the  midst 
A  garden  and   my  Rosamund.      Look, 

this  line  —  ' 
The  rest  you  see  is  color'd  green — but 

this 
Draws  thro'  the  chart  to  her. 

Becket.  This  blood -red  line  ■? 

Henry.      Ay  !    blood,    perchance,    ex- 
cept thou  see  to  her. 
Becket.     And  where  is  she  ?     There 

in  her  English  nest  ? 
Henry.     Would   God  she  were  —  no, 
here  within  the  city. 
We  take  her  from  her  secret  bower  in 
Anjou 


And   pass   her  to  her  secret  bower  in 

England. 
She  is  ignorant  of  all  but  that  I  love  her. 
Becket.     My  liege,  I  pray  thee  let  me 

hence :  a  widow 
And   orphan   child,  whom   one  of  thy 

wild  barons  — 
Henry.     Ay,  ay,  but  swear  to  see  to 

her  in  England. 
Becket.     Well,  well,  I  swear,  but  not 

to  please  myself. 
Henry.     Whatever  come  between  us  ? 
Becket.  What  should  come 

Between  us,  Henry  ? 

Henry.    Nay  —  I  know  not,  Thomas. 
Becket.     What  need   then?     Well  — 

whatever  come  between  us. 

[  Going. 
Henry.     A  moment !  thou  didst  help 

me  to  my  throne 
In  Theobald's  time,  and    after  by  thy 

wisdom 
Hast   kept   it    firm  from  shaking ;    but 

now  I, 
For  my  realm's  sake,  niystlf  must  be 

the  wizard 
To  raise  that  tempest  which  will  set  it 

trembling 
Only  to  base  it  deeper.     I,  true  son 
Of  Holy  Church  —  no  croucher  to  the 

Gregories 
That  tread  the  kings  their  children  un- 

derheel  — 
Must  curb  her;  and  the  Holy  Father. 

while 
This   Barbarossa   butts   him    from    his 

chair, 
Will   need   my  help  —  be   facile  to  my 

hands. 
Now  is  my  time.  Yet  —  lest  there  should 

be  flashes 
And    fnlminations    from    the    side    of 

Eome, 
An  interdict  on  England  —  I  will  have 
My  young  son  Henry  crown'd  the  King 

of  England, 
That   so    the  Papal  bo't  may  pass  by 

England, 
As    seeming    his,   not    mine,   and    fall 

abroad. 
I  '11  have  it  done  —  and  now. 

Becket.  Surely  too  young 

Even  for  this  shadow  of  a  crown ;  and 

tho' 
1  love  him  heartily,  I  can  S]iy  alrendy 
A  strain  of  hard  and  headstrong  in  him. 

Say, 


708 


BECKET. 


The   Queen   should    play   his   kingship 
against  thine ! 
Henri/.     I  will  not  think  so,  Thomas. 
Who  shall  crown  him  ? 
Canterbury  is  dying. 

Becket.  The  next  Canterbury. 

Henry.     And    who   shall    lie    he,    my 

friend  Thomas  ?     Wiio? 
Becket.     Name  him  ;  the  Holy  Father 

will  confirm  him. 
Henri/    (laijs    his    hand    on     Bechet's 

shoulder).     Here ! 
Becket.     Mock   me   not.      I   am   not 
even  a  monk. 
Thy  jest  —  no   more.     Why  —  look  — 

is  this  a  sleeve 
For  an  archbishop  ? 

Henry.  But  the  arm  within 

Is  Becket's,  who  hath  beaten  down  my 
foes. 
Becket.     A  soldier's,  not  a   spiritual 

arm. 
Henry.     I   lack    a    spiritual    soldier, 
Thomas  — 
A  man  of  this  world  and  the  next  to 
boot. 
Becket.     There  's  Gilbert  Foliot. 
Henry.  He!  too  thin,  too  ihin. 

Thou  art  the  man  to  fill  out  the  Cliureh 

robe  ; 
Your  Foliot  fasts  and  fawns  too  much 
for  me. 
Becket.     Eoger  of  York. 
Henry.  Eoger  is  Rogev  of  York. 

King,  Church,  and  State  to  liim  but  foils 

wherein 
To  set  that  precious  jewel,    Koger   of 

York. 
No. 

Becket.     Henry  of  AVInchester? 
Henry.    Him  who  crown 'd  Stephen  — 
King  Stephen's  brother  !    No  ;  too  royal 

for  me. 
And  I  '11  have  no  more  Auselms. 

Becket.  Sire,  the  business 

Of  thy  whole   kingdom  waits   me :  let 
me  go. 
Henry.     Answer  me  first. 
Becket.  Then  for  thy  barren  jest 

Take  thou    mine   answer  in   bare  com- 
monplace — 
Nolo  e/nscopari. 

Henry.  Ay,  but  Nolo 

Archiepiscopari ,  my  good  friend. 
Is  quite  another  matter. 
Becket.  A  more  awful  one. 


Make  me  archbishop  !  Why,  my  liege.  I 
know 

Some  three  or  four  poor  priests  a  thou- 
sand times 

Fitter  for  this  grand  function.  Me  arch- 
liishop ! 

God's  favor  and  king's  favor  might  so 
clash 

That  thou  and  I  —  That  were  a  jest  in- 
deed ! 
Henry.     Thou  angerest  me,  man  :     I 
do  not  jest. 

Enter   Eleanor   and   Sir    Reginald 

FiTZURSE. 

Eleanor  [singing). 

Over  I  the  sweet  summer.closes, 
The  reign  of  the  I'oses  is  done  — 

Henry  (to  Becket,  who  is  going).   Thou 

shalt  not  go.     I  have  not  ended 

with  thee. 

Eleanor  [seeing  chart  on  tulle).     This 

chart   with    the   red   line !    her  bower ! 

whose  bower  1 

Henry.  The  chart  is  not  mine,  but 
Becket's  :  take  it,  Thomas. 

Eleanor.  Becket!  O  —  ay — and 
these  chessmen  on  the  floor —  the  king's 
crown  broken  !  Becket  h.ith  beaten  thee 
again  —  and  thou  hast  kicked  down  the 
board.     I  know  thee  of  old. 

Henry.  Trne  enough,  my  mind  was 
set  upon  other  matters. 

Eleanor.  What  matters  ?  State  mat- 
ters 1  love  matters  ? 

Henry.     My  love  for  thee,  and  thine 
for  me. 
Eleanor. 

Over '.  the  sweet  summer  closes, 
The  reigu  of  the  roses  is  done ; 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
And  over  and  gone  witli  the  sun. 

Here ;  but  our  sun  in  Aquitaine  lasts 
longer.  I  would  I  were  in  Aquitaine 
again  —  your  north  chills  me. 

Over!  the  sweet  summer  clo.«es. 
And  never  a  flower  at  the  close: 

Over  and  gone  with  tlie  roses, 
And  winter  again  and  the  snows. 

That  was  not  the  v.'.iy  I  ended  it  first  — 
but  unsynimetrically,  preposterously, 
illogically,  out  of  passion,  without  art 
—  like  a  song  of  the  people.  Will  you 
have  it  ?  The  last  Parthian  shaft  of  a 
forlorn  Cnjiid  at  the  King's  left  breast, 
and  all  left-handedness  and  under-hand- 
edness. 


BECKET. 


709 


And  never  a  flower  at  the  close, 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
•  Not  over  and  gone  with  the  rose. 

True,  one  rose  will  outblossom  the  rest, 
one  rose  in  a  bower.  I  speak  after  my 
fancies,  for  I  am  a  Troubaduur,  you 
know,  and  won  the  violet  at  Toulouse ; 
but  my  voice  is  harsh  here,  not  in  tune, 
a  nightingale  out  of  season  ;  for  mar- 
riage, rose  or  no  rose,  has  killed  the 
golden  violet. 

Beck-pt.  Madam,  you  do  ill  to  scorn 
wedded  love. 

Eleanor.  So  I  <lo.  Louis  of  France 
loved  me,  and  I  dreamed  that  I  loved 
Louis  of  France  :  and  I  loved  Henry 
of  England,  and  Henry  of  England 
dreamed  that  he  loved  me ;  but  the 
marriage-garland  witlurs  even  with  the 
putting  on,  tiie  liright  link  rusts  with 
the  breath  of  the  first  after-marriage 
kiss,  the  harvest  moon  is  the  ripening  of 
the  harvest,  and  the  honeymoon  is  the 
gall  of  love  ;  he  dies  of  his  honeymoon. 
I  coulil  pity  this  poor  world  myself  that 
it  is  no  better  ordered. 

Henry.  Dead  is  he,  my  Queen  ? 
What,  altogether  ?  Let  me  swear  nay 
to  that  by  this  cross  on  thy  neck.  God's 
eyes !  what  a  lovely  cross !  what  jewels  ! 

Eleanor.  Doth  it  please  you  ?  Take 
it  and  wear  it  ou  that  hard  heart  of 
yours  —  there.  [C/ces  It.  to  him. 

Henry  {puts  it  on).    On  this  left  breast 
before  so  hard  a  heart. 
To  hide  the  scar  left  by  thy  Parthian 
dart. 

Eleanor.  Has  my  simple  song  set  you 
jingling  !  Nay,  if  I  took  and  translated 
that  hiird  heart  into  our  Proveiieal  facil- 
ities, I  could  so  play  about  it  with  tlie 
rhyme  — 

Henry.  That  the  heart  were  lost  in 
the  rhyme  and  the  matter  in  the  metre. 
May  we  not  i)ray  you,  ^Ladam,  to  spare 
us  the  hardness  of  your  facility  ? 

Eleanor.  The  wells  of  Castaly  are 
not  wasted  upon  the  desert.  Wo  did 
but  jest. 

Henry.  There 's  no  jest  on  the  brows 
of  Herbert  there.     What  is  it,  Herbert  1 

Enter  Herbert  of  Bosham. 

Herbert.     My  liege,  the   good  Arch- 
bishop is  no  more.  . 
Henry.     Peace  to  his  soul  1  | 
Herbert.     I  left  him  with  peace  on  his  i 


face  —  that  sweet  other -world  smile, 
whicli  will  be  reflected  in  the  spiritual 
body  among  the  angels.  But  he  longed 
much  to  see  your  Grace  and  the  Chan- 
cellor ere  he  past,  ami  his  last  words 
Were  a  commendation  of  Thomas  Becket 
to  your  Grace  as  his  successor  in  the 
archbishopric. 

Henry.  Ha,  Becket !  thou  remem 
berest  our  talk  '. 

Becket.  My  heart  is  full  of  tears  —  I 
have  no  answer. 

Henry.  Well,  well,  old  men  must  die, 
or  the  world  would  grow  mouldy,  would 
only  breed  the  past  again.  Come  to  me 
to-morrow.  Thou  hast  but  to  hold  out 
thy  hand.  Meanwhile  the  revenues  are 
mine.  A-hawking,  a-hawkiiig  !  If  I  sit, 
I  grow  fat. 

[Leaps  orer  the  table  and  exit. 

Becket.    He  did  prefer  me  to  the  chan- 
cellorship. 
Believing  I  should  ever  aid  the  Church^ 
But  have  I  done  it  1     He  commends  me 

now 
From  out  his  grave  to  this  archbishop- 
ric. 

Herbert.     A  dead  man's   dying  wish 
should  bo  of  weight. 

Becket.     His  should.     Come  with  me. 
Let  me  learn  at  full 
The   manner  of  his  death,  and  all  he 
said. 
[Exeunt  Herbert  anc?  Becket. 

Eleanor.  Fitzurse,  that  chart  with 
the  red  line  —  thou  sawest  it  —  her 
bower. 

Fitzurse.     Rosamund's? 

Eleanor.  Ay  —  there  lies  the  secret 
of  her  whereabouts,  and  the  King  gave 
it  to  his  Chancellor. 

Fitzurse.  To  this  son  of  a  Loudon 
merchant —  how  your  Grace  must  hate 
him. 

Eleanor.  Hate  him  ?  as  brave  a  sol- 
dier as  Henry  and  a  goodlier  man:  bufc 
thou — dost  thou  love  this  Chancellor, 
that  thou  hast  sworn  a  voluntary  alle- 
giance to  him  ? 

Fitzurse.  Not  for  my  love  toward 
him,  but  because  he  had  the  love  of  the 
King.  How  should  a  baroi?  love  a  beg- 
gar on  horseback,  with  the  retinue  of 
three  kings  behind  him,  outroyalling 
royalty  i  Be>ides,  he  holp  the  King  to 
break  down  our  castles,  for  the  which  I 
hate  him. 


710 


EECKET. 


Eleanor.  For  the  which  I  honor  him. 
Statesman  not  Churchman  he.  A  great 
and  sound  pulicy  that:  I  could  embrace 
him  for  it :  you  could  not  see  the  King 
for  the  kiuglings 

Fitzuise.  Ay,  but  he  speaks  to  a 
noble  as  tlio'  he  were  a  churl,  and  to  a 
churl  as  if  he  were  a  noble. 

Eleanor.     Pride  of  the  plebeian  ! 

Fitzurse.  Aiid  this  plebeiau  like  to 
be  Archbishop ! 

Eleanor.  True,  and  I  have  an  inher- 
ited loathing  of  these  black  sheep  of  the 
Papacy.  Archbishoj)?  I  can  .see  further 
into  a  man  than  our  hot-headed  Henry, 
and  if  there  ever  come  feud  between 
Church  and  Crown,  and  1  do  not  then 
charm  this  secret  out  of  our  loyal 
Thomas,  I  am  not  Eleanor. 

Fitzurse.  Last  nii;ht  I  followed  a 
woman  in  the  city  here.  Her  face  was 
veiled,  but  the  back  methonght  was 
Rosamund — his  paramour,  thy  rival. 
I  can  feel  for  thee. 

Eleanor.  Thou  feel  for  me  !  —  para- 
mour—  rival  !  King  Louis  had  no  j)ar- 
amours,  and  I  loved  him  none  the  more. 
Henry  had  mauj',  and  I  loved  him  none 
the  less  —  now  neither  more  nor  less — 
not  at  all  ;  the  cup 's  empty.  I  would 
she  were  but  his  paramour,  for  men  tire 
of  their  fancies ;  but  I  fear  this  one 
fancy  hath  taken  root,  and  borne  blos- 
som too,  and  she,  whom  the  King  loves 
indeed,  is  a  power  in  the  State.     Rival! 

—  ay,  and  when  the  King  passes,  there 
may  come  a  crash  and  embroilment  as 
in  Ste]>hen's  time ;  and  her  children  — 
canst  thou  not  —  that  secret  matter 
which  would  heat  the  King  against  thee 
(ivhispers  him  and  he  starts).  Nay,  that 
is  safe  with  me  as  with  thyself:  but 
canst  thou  not — thou  art  drowned  in 
debt  —  thou  shalt  have  our  love,  our 
silence,  and  our  gold  —  canst  thou  not 

—  if  thou  light  upon  her — free  me 
from  her  'i 

Fitzurse.  Well,  Madam,  I  have  loved 
her  in  my  time. 

Eleanor.  No,  my  bear,  thou  bast  not. 
My  Courts  of  Love  would  have  held 
thee  guiltless  of  love — the  fine  attrac- 
tions and  repulses,  the  delicacies,  the 
subtleties. 

Fitzurse.  Madam,  I  loved  according 
to  the  main  purpose  and  intent  of  na- 
ture. 


Eleanor.  I  warrant  thee!  thouwoulds- 
hug  thy  Cupid  till  his  ribs  cracked  -^ 
enough  of  this.  Follow  me  this  Rosa- 
mutid  day  and  night,  whithersoever  sha 
goes  ;  track  her,  if  thou  canst,  even  into 
the  King's  lodging,  that  I  may  [clenched 
her  fist)  —  may  at  least  have  my  cry 
against  him  and  her,  — and  thou  in  thy 
way  shouldst  be  jealous  of  the  King,  fo:.° 
thou  in  thy  way  didst  once,  what  shall  i 
call  it,  affect  her  thine  own  self. 

Fitzurse.  Ay,  but  the  young  colii 
winced  and  whinnied  and  flung  up  her 
heels ;  and  then  the  King  came  honey- 
ing about  her,  and  this  Becket,  her 
father's  friend,  like  enough  staved  us 
from  her. 

Eleanor.     Us ! 

Fitzurse.  "Yea,  by  the  Blessed  Virgin  I 
There  were  more  than  I  buzzing  roimd 
the  blossom  —  De  Tracy  —  even  that 
flint  l)e  Brito. 

Eleanor.  Carry  her  off  among  you ; 
run  iu  upon  her  and  devour  her,  one 
and  all  of  you  ;  make  her  as  hateful  to 
herself  and  to  the  King,  as  she  is  to  me. 

Fitzurse.  I  and  all  would  be  glad  to 
wreak  our  spite  on  the  rosefaced  minion 
of  the  King,  and  bring  her  to  the  level 
of  the  dust,  so  that  the  King  — 

Eleanor.  Let  her  eat  it  like  the  ser- 
pent, and  be  driven  out  of  her  paradise 


ACT  L 

Scene  I.  —  Becket's  House  in  fyondon. 
Chamber  barehj  furnished.  Bi:cket 
iijirobing.  Herbert  of  BoshaiM  and 
Servant. 

Servant.     Shall  I  not  help  your  lord- 
ship to  your  rest? 
Becket.     Friend,  am  I  so  much  better 
than  thyself 
That  thou  shouldst  help  me  ?     Thou  aVL 

wearied  out 
With  this  day's  work  get  thee  to  thinj' 

own  bed. 
Leave  me  with  Herbert,  friend. 

[Frit  Servani? 
Help  me  off,  Herbert,  with  this  —  anf; 
this. 
Herbert.     Was  sot  the   people's  bless- 
ing as  we  past 
Heart-comfort    and    a    balsam    to  thy 
blood? 


BECKET. 


711 


Becket.     The  people  know  their  Chuicli 

a  tower  of  strength, 

A  bulwark  against  Throne  and  Baronage. 

Too    heavy    for    me,    this;    oft'  with    it, 

Herbert ! 

Herbert.     Is    it  so   much  heavier  than 

thy  Chancellor's  robe  1 
Becket.     No;  but  ilie  Chancellor's  and 
the  Archbishop's 
Together  more  than  mortal  man  can  bear. 
Herbert.     Not    heavier   than  thine   ar- 
mor at  Toulouse  ? 
Becket.     O    Herbert,    Herbert,  in    my 
chancellorship 
I  mure  than  once  have  gone  against  the 
Church. 
Herbert.     To  please  the  King  ? 
Becket.  Ay,  and  the  King  of  kings, 

Or  justice ;  for  it  seem'd  to  me  but  just 
The  Church  should  pay  her  scutage  like 

the  lords. 
But  hast  thou  heard  this  cry  of  Gilbert 

Foliot 
That  I  am  not  the  man  to  be  your  Pri- 
mate, 
For  Henry  could  not  work  a  miracle  — 
Make  an  Archbishop  of  a  soldier  7 

Herbert.  Ay, 

For  Gilbert  Foliot  held  himself  the  man. 
Becket.     Am  I  the  man?     My  mother, 
ere  she  bore  me, 
Dream'd  that  twelve  stars  fell  glittering 

out  of  heaven 
Into  her  bosom. 

Herbert.  Ay,  the  fire,  the  light, 

The  spirit  of  the  twehc  Ajjostles  eutcr'd 
Into  thy  makinu'. 

Becket.  And  when  I  was  a  ciiild, 

The  Virgin,  in  a  vision  of  my  sleep. 
Gave   me    tlie  golden  keys  of  Paradise. 

Dream, 
Or  prophecy, that  ? 

Herbert.     Well,   dream   and  jjrophecy 

both. 
Becket.    And  when  I  was  of  Theobald's 
household,  once  — 
The   good    old     man    would    sometimes 

have  his  jest  — 
He  took  Ills  mitre  off,  and  set  it  on  me. 
And    said,    "My    young    Archbishop  — 

tliou  wouldst  make 
A  Stately  Archbishop  !  "     Jest  or   proph- 
ecy there  ? 
Herbert.     Both,  Thomas,  both. 
Becket.        Am  I  the  man  1     That  rang 
Within  my  head  last  night,  and  whec  I 
slept 


Methouiiht  I  stood  in  Canterbury  Min- 
ster, 
And  spake  to   the   Lord   God,  and  said, 

"  O  Lord, 
I  have  lieen  a  lover  of  wines,  and  delicate 

meats, 
And  secular  splendors,  and  a  favorer 
Of  pla^'crs,  and  a  courtier,  and  a  feeder 
Of  dogs  and  hawks,  and  apes,  ai.d  lions, 

and  lynxes. 
Am   I  the  man  ? "     And   the  Ijord  an- 

swer'd  me, 
"  Thou   art   the  man,  and  all  the  more 

the  man." 
And  then  I  asked  acaiu,  "  O  Lord  my 

God, 
Henry  the    King   hath   been  my  friend, 

my  brother. 
And    nnne    nplifter   in    this    world,    and 

chosen  me 
For  this  thy  great  archbisliojiric,  believ- 
ing 
That   I  should   go   against   the   Church 

with  him, 
And   I  shall   go   against   him   with    the 

Church, 
And  I  have  said  no  word  of  tiiis  to  him  : 
Am   /  the   man  ?  "      And  the  Lord  an- 

swer'd  me, 
"  Tlicu  art  the  man,  and  all  the  more  the 

man." 
And  thereupon,  methoiight.  He  drew  to- 
ward me. 
And  smote  me  down  upon  the  INlinster 

floor. 
I  fell. 
Herbert.      God  make  not  thee,  but  thy 

foes,  fall. 
Becket.     I  fell.     Why  fall  ?     AVhy  did 

He  smite  me  1     What  ? 
Shall  I  fall  off  —  to  please  the  King  once 

more  1 
Not  fight  —  tho'  somehow  traitor  to  the 

King  — 
My   truest    and    mine    utmost    for    the 

Church? 
Herbert.    Thou  canst  not  fall  that  way. 

Let  traitor  be  ; 
For  how  have  fought  thine  utmost  for  the 

Church, 
Save  from  the  throne  of  thine  archbish- 
opric 7 
And  how  been  made  Archbishop  hadst 

thou  told  him, 
"I  mean  to  fight  mine  utmost  for  the 

Church, 
Against  the  King  7  " 


712 


BEGKET. 


Becket.     But  dost  thou  think  tiu'  Kiug 
Forced  mine  election  1 

Herbert.  I  do  thiuk  the  King 

Was   potent   iu    the    election,   and  why 

not? 
Why  aliould  not  Heaven  have  so  inspired 

the  King? 
Be  comforted.     Thou  art  the  man  —  be 

thou 
A  mighiior  Anselin. 
Becket.     I  do  believe  thee,  then.     I  am 

the  man. 
And  yet  I   seem    appall'd  —  on   such    a 

sudden 
At    such   an    eagle-height    I  stand   and 

see 
The  rift   that  runs  bttweeu  me  and  the 

King. 
I  served  our  Theobald  well  when  I  was 

with  liim; 
I  served  King  Henry  well  as    Chancel- 
lor; 
I  am  his  no  more,  and  I  must  serve  the 

Church. 
This  Canterbury  is  only  less  than  Koine, 
And  all  my  doubts  I  fling  from  me  like 

dust. 
Winnow  and  scatter  all  scruples  to  the 

wind. 
And  all  the  puissance  of  the  warrior, 
And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Chancellor, 
And  all  the  hea]i'd  experiences  of  life, 
I  cast  upon  the  side  of  Canterbury  — 
Our  holy  mother  Canterbury,  who  sits 
With  tatter'd  robes.     Laics  and  barons, 

thro' 
The  random  gifts  of  careless  kings,  have 

graspt 
Her    livings,    her    advowsons,    granges, 

farms. 
And  goodly  acres  —  we    will   make   her 

whole  ; 
Not  one  rood  lost.     And  for  these  Royal 

customs, 
These  ancient  Koyal  customs,  —  they  are 

Koyal, 
Not  of  the    Church  —  and    let  them  be 

anathema, 
And  all  that  speak  for  them  anathema. 
Herbert.     Thomas,  thou  art  moved  too 

much. 
Becket.  O  Herbert,  here 

I  gash  myself  asunder  from  the  King, 
Tho'  leaving  each,  a  wound  ;  mine  own, 

a  grief 
To  show  the  scar  forever  —  his,  a  hate 
Not  ever  to  be  heal'd. 


Enter  Rosamund  de  Clifford,  flying 
from  Sir  Reginald  I^'itzcrse.  Drops 
her  veil. 

Becket.  Rosamund  de  Clifford  1 

Rosamund.     Save  me,  father,  hide  me 

—  they  follow   me  —  and  I  must 

not  be  known. 
Becket.     Pass  in  with  Herbert  there. 

\^ExMut  Rosamund  and  Herbert 
by  side  door. 

Enter  Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse.     The  Archbishop! 
Becket.     Ay !  what  wouldst  thou,  Re- 
ginald 1 
Fitzurse.     Why — why,  my  lord,  I  fol- 

low'd  —  f ollow'd  one  — 
Becket.     And  then  what  follows  ?     Let 

me  follow  thee. 
Fitzurse.    It  much  imports  me  I  should 

know  her  name. 
Becket.  What  her  1 
Fitzurse.     The  woman  that  I  follow 'd 

hither. 
Becket.     Perhaps  it  may  import  her  all 
as  much 
Not  to  be  known. 

Fitzurse.  And  what  care  I  for  that  ? 

Come,  come,  my  lord  Archbishop  ;  I  saw 

that  door 
Close  even  now  upon  the  woman. 

Becket.  Well  1 

Fitzurse  (making  for  the  door).   Nay,  let 
me  pass,  my  lord,  for  1  must  know. 
Becket.     Back,  man ! 
Fitzurse.  Then  tell  me  who  and  what 

she  is. 
Becket.     Art    thou   so   sure    thou   fol 
lowedst  anything? 
Go  home,  and  sleep  thy  wine  off,  for  thine 

eyes 
Glare  stupid-wild  with  wine. 

Fitzurse  (making  to  the  door).        I  must 
and  will. 
I  care  not  for  thy  new  archbishopric. 

Becket.    Back,  man,  I  tell  thee  !  What! 
Shall  I  forget  my  new  archbishopric 
And  smite   thee  with  my  crozier  on  the 

skull  ? 
'Fore  God,  I  am  a  mightier  man  than 
thou. 
Fitzurse.     It  well  befits   thy  new  arch- 
bishopric 
To   take    the   vagabond   woman   of   the 

street 
Into  thine  arms! 


BECKET, 


713 


Becket.  O  drunken  ribaldry  ! 

Out,  beast !  out,  bear  ! 

Fitzurse.  1  shall  remember  tliiri. 

Becket.     Do,  aud  begone ! 

{Exit  Fitzurse. 

\Goiny  to  the  door,  sees  1)e  Tracy.) 

Tracy,  wiiat  do>t  thou  iiere  ? 

De  Tracy.     iMy  lord,  I  follow  d  Jiegi- 

nald  Fitzur&e. 
Becket.     Follow  him  out ! 
JJe  Tracy.  I  shall  remember  this 

Discourtesy.  \Exii. 

Becket.     Do.     These   be  those   baron- 
brutes 
That  havock'd  all  the  laud  in  Stephen's 

day. 
Rosamund  de  ','lifford. 

Reenter  Rosamund  and  Herbert, 

Rosamund,  Ileie  aui  I. 

Becket.  Whyliere? 

Wc  gave  thee  to  the  charge  of  John  of 

Salisbury, 
To  pass  thee  to  thy  secret  bower  to-mor- 
row. 
Wast  thou  not  told  to  keep  thyself  from 

sight? 
Rosavvmd.    Poor  bird  of  pa.ssage !  so  I 

was;  but,  father, 
They  say  that   you  aie  wise  in  winsed 

things, 
And  know  the  ways  of  Nature.     Bar  the 

bird 
From    following    the    fled    summer — a 

chink —  he's  out, 
Gone  !     iUul  there  stole  into  the  city  a 

breath 
Full  of  the  meadows,  and  it  minded  me 
Of  the  sweet  woods  of  Clifford,  and  the 

walks 
Where  I  could  move  at  pleasure,  and  I 

thought 
Lo !  I  must  out  or  die. 

Becket.  Or  out  mid  die. 

And  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  this  Fitz- 
urse ? 
Rosamund.      Nothing.      He    sued    my 

hand.     I  shook  at  him. 
He  found  me  once  alone.  —  Nay  —  nay 

—  I  cannot 
Tell  you :  my  father  drove  him  aud  his 

friends, 
De  Tracy  and  De  Biito,  from  our  castle. 
I  was  but  fourteen  and  an  April  then. 
I  heard  him  swear  revenge. 
Becket.  Why  will  you  court  it 


By  self-exposure  ?  flutter  out  at  night  ? 
Make  it  so  hard  to  save  a  moth  from  the 
fire? 
Rosamund.    I  have  saved  many  of  em, 
You  catch  'em,  so, 
Softly,  and  fling  them  out  to  the  free  air. 
They  burn  themselves  witlu'n-door. 

Becket.  Our  good  eTohn 

Must  speed   you  to  vour  bower  at  once. 

The  child 
Is  there  already. 

Rosamund.  Yes — the   child — the 

child  — 

0  rare,  a  whole  long  day  of  open  field. 
Becket.     Ay,  but  you  go  disguised. 
Rosamund.  O  rare  again  I 

We  '11  bafW.e  them,  I  warrant.  What  shall 
it  be? 

1  '11  g-o  as  a  nun. 

Becket.  No. 

Rosamund.         What,  not  good  enough 
Even  to  play  at  nun  ? 

Becket.  Dan  John  with  a  nun, 

That  Map,  and  these  new  railers  at  the 

Church 
May  plaister  his  clean   name  with  scur- 
rilous rhvmes ! 
No! 

Go  like  a  monk,  cowling  and  clouding  up 
That   fatal   stai",   thy   Beauty,  from  the 

squint 
Of  lu'-t  anil  glare  of  malice.    Good  night! 
good  night ! 
Rosamund.     Father,  I  am  so  tender  to 
all  hardness ! 
Nav,  father,  first  thv  blessing, 
/j>cket.  '        Wedded? 

Rosamurtd.  Father  I 

Becket.     Well,   well !    I  ask  no  more. 

Heaven  bless  thee  !  hence  : 
Rosamund.     O,  holy  father,  when  thou 
seest  him  next, 
Commend  me  to  thy  friend. 

Becket.  What  friend  ? 

Rosamund.  The  King„ 

Becket.     Herbert,  take  out  a  score  of 
armed  men 
To  guard   this    bird   of   passage   to  her 

cage  ; 
And  watch   Fitzurse,   and    if   he   follow 

thee, 
Make  him  thy  prisoner.     I  am  Chancel- 
lor yet. 

[Exeu7it  Herbert  and  Rosamund. 
Poor  soul '  poor  soul ! 
My  friend,  the  King !  .  .  .  O  thou  Great 
Seal  of  England, 


n4 


BECKET. 


Given  me  by  my  dear  frieud  the  King  of 

England  — 
We    long   have    wrought    together,  thou 

and  I  — 
Now    must   I   send   tliee   as   a    commou 

friend 
To  tell  tlie  Kiug,  my  friend,  I  am  against 

him. 
We   are   friends   no  more  :    he  will  say 

that,  not  I. 
The  worldly  bond  between  us  is  dissolved, 
Not  yet  the  love  :  can  1  be  under  liim 
As  Chaucellor  ?  as  Archbishoj)  over  him  ? 
Go   therefore  like  a  frieud  slighted  by 

one 
That  hath  climb'd  U])  to  nobler  company. 
Not  slighted  —  all  but  moau'd  for  :  thou 

nmst  go. 
J  have  not   di>houor'd   thee  —  I    trust  I 

have  not ; 
Not  mangled  justice.    May  tlie  hand  that 

next 
Inherits  thee  be  but  as  true  to  thee 
As  mine  hath  been  !     O,  my  dear  friend, 

the  King ! 

0  brother !  —  1    may   come   to   martyr- 

dom. 

1  am  martyr  in  myself  already.  —  Her- 

bert i 
Herbert  (reenteriv(i).    ]My  lord,  the  town 
is  quiet,  and  the  moon 

Divides  the  whole  long  street  with  light 
and  shade. 

No  footfall  —  no  Fitzurse.    We  have  seen 
her  liome. 
Becket.     The  hog  hath  tumbled  him- 
self into  some  corner, 

Some  ditch,  to  snore  away  his  drunken- 
ness 

Into     the     sober     headache,  —  Natui-e's 
moral 

Against  excess.     Let  tlie  Great  Seal  be 
sent 

Back  to  the  King  to-morrow. 

Herhn-t.  Must  that  be  ? 

The  King  may  rend  the  bearer  limb  from 
limb. 

Think  ou  it  agaiu. 

Becket.  Against  the  moral  excess 

No  physical  ache,  but  failure  it  may  be 

Of  all  we  aim'il  at.     John  of  Salisbury 

Hath   often   laid   a   cold    hand    on    my 
heats, 

And  Herbert  hatli  rebuked  me  even  now. 

I  will  be  wise  and  wary,  not  the  soldier 

As  Foliot  swears  it.  —  John,  and  out  of 
breath ! 


Filter  John  of  Salisbttrt- 

John  of  Salisbury.     Thomas,  thou  wast 

not  happy  taking  charge 
Of   this   wild    Rosamund   to   please   the 

King, 
Nor    am    1    happy    having    charge     of 

her  — 
The  includei  Danae  has  escaped  again 
Her  tower,  and  her  Acrisius  —  where  tc 

seek  ? 
I  have  been  about  the  city. 

Becket.  Tiiou  wilt  find  her 

Back  iu  her  lodging.     Go  with  her  —  at 

once  — 
To-night  —  my  men  will   guard   you   to 

the  gates. 
Be  sweet  to  her,  she  has  many  enemies. 
Send  the  Great  Seal  by  daybreak.    Both, 

good  night ! 

Scene  II.  —  Street  in  Northampton,  lead- 
ing to  the  Castle.  ELEANoti's  Retain- 
ers and  Becket's  Retainers  fight- 
ing. Enter  Eleanor  and  Becket 
from  opposite  streets. 

Eleanor.     Peace,  fools ! 

Becket.       Peace,    friends !     what     idle 

brawl  is  this  ? 
Retainer    of    Becket.       They     said  — 
her    (j race's    people  —  thou    wast 
found  — 
Liars  !    I  shame  to  quote  'em  —  caught, 

my  lord, 
AVith   a  wanton   iu   thy  lodging  —  Hell 
requite  'em! 
Retainer    of  Eleanor.     My   liege,    the 
Lord  Fitzurse  reported  this 
In  passing  to  the  Castle  even  now. 

Retainer  of  Becket.       And    then    they 
mock'd  us  and  we  fell  upon  'em, 
For  we  would  live  and  die  for  thee,  my 

lord, 
However  kings  and  queens  may  frown  on 
thee. 
Becket  to  his  Retainers.     Go,  go — no 

more  of  this ! 
Eleanor   to   her   Retainers.      AwayS  — 
(Exeunt  Retainers)  Fitzurse  — 
Becket.     Nay,  let  him  be. 
Eleanor.     No,  no,  my  Loid  Archbishop, 
'T  is   known   j'ou   are    midwinter   to  all 

women, 
But  often    in    your   chancellorship   you 

served 
The  follies  of  the  King. 
Becket.  No,  not  these  foUiea! 


BECKET. 


715 


Eleanor.    My  lord,  FitzAirse  beheld  her 

in  your  lodgiug. 
Bccket.     Wliora  ? 

Eleanor.  Well  —  you  know — the  min- 
ion, Rosamund. 
Becket.     lie  had  good  eyes  ! 
Eleanor.         Then,  hidden  in  the  street. 
He  watch'd  her  pass  with  John  of  Salis- 
bury 
And  heard  her  cry   "  Where  is  this  bower 
of  mine  '.  " 
Becket.     Good  ears  too  ! 
Eleanor.     You  arc  going  to  the  Castle, 
Will  you  subscribe  the  customs  '. 

Bfcket.  I  leave  that, 

Knowinii:  how  much  you  reverence  Holy 

Chiireh, 
My  liege,  to  your  conjecture. 

Eleanor.  I  and  mine  — 

And    many   a    baron    holds   along  with 

me  — 
Are   not  so    much    at  feud    with    Holy 

Cliureh 
But  we  miglit  take  your  side  against  the 

customs  — 
So  that  you  grant  nie  one  slight  favor. 
Becket.  What? 

Eleanor.     A  siglit  of  that  same  cliart 
which  Henry  gave  you 
Witli  the  red  line —  "  her  bower," 

Becket.  And  to  what  cud  ' 

Eleanor.    That  Church  must  scorn  her- 
self whose  feaiful  Priest 
Sits  winking  at  tlie  license  of  a  king, 
Altho'  we  grant  when  kings  are  dangerous 
The  Church  must  play  into  tiie  hands  of 

kings ; 
Look !    I  would  move  this  wanton  from 

his  si^ht 
And  take  the  Church's  danger  on  myself. 
Becke/.     For  which  she  should  be  duly 

grateful. 
Eleanor.  True  ! 

Tho'   she   t!uit   binds   tlie   bond,  herself 

should  see 
That  kings  are  faithful  to  their  marriage 
vow. 
Becket.     Ay,  Madam,  and  queens  also. 
Eleanor.  And  queens  also  ! 

What  is  your  drift  ? 

Becket.'  My  drift  is  to  the  Castle, 

Where  I  shall  meet  the  Barons  and  ni}' 

King.  [Exit. 

De   Bkoc,   De  Tracy,  De  Brito,  X)e 
MoRViLLE  ipassinp) 

Eleanor.     To  the  Castle  ' 


De  Broc.  Ay! 

Eleanor.     Stir  up  the  King,  the  Lords  ! 
Set  all  on  fire  against  him  ! 

De  Brito.  Ay,  good  Madamu! 

[Exeunt. 
Eleanor.     Fool !  I  will  make  thee  hate- 
ful to  thy  King. 
Churl !    I  will   have   thee  frighted  into 

France, 
And  I  shall  live  to  trample  on  thy  grave. 

Scene  IIL  —  The  Hall  in  Northamp- 
ton Castle. 

On  one  side  of  the  sta(je  the  doors  of  an  in- 
ner Council-chamher,  half-open.  At  the 
bottom,  the  great  doors  of  the  Hall. 
KoGER  Archbishop  of  York,  Fo- 
i.ior  BisHoi>  OF  London,  Hilary  op 

ClUCllKSTER,    BiSHOI'   OF    HlCKEFOUU, 

liiCHARD  DE  Hastings  [Grand  Prior 
of'Templars)  Philip  de  EleeiMOSYna 
{the  Pope''s  Almoner),  and  others.  De 
Bkoc,  Fitzurse,  De  Brito,  De 
MouviLLE,  De  Tracy,  and  other 
Barons  assembled  —  a  table  before 
them.  John  of  Oxford,  President 
of  the  Council. 

Enter  Becket  and  Herbert  of 
Bosh  AM. 

Becket.     Where  is  the  King  ? 
Roger  of  York.     Gtone  hawking  on  the 
Nene, 
His  heart  so  gall'd  with  tliine  ingratitude, 
He  will   not  see  thy  face  till   thou    hast 

sign'd 
These   ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the 

realm. 
Thy  sendin^r  back  the  Great  Seal  raad- 

den'd  him, 
He    all    but    pluck'd   the   bearer's    eyes 

away. 
Take  heed,  lest  he  destroy  thee  utterly. 
Becket.     Then  shalt  thou  step  into  my 

place  and  sign. 
Roger  of  York.    Didst  thou  not  promise 
Henry  to  obey 
These  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  the 
realm  ? 
Becket.     Saving  the  honor  of  my  order 
—  ay. 
Customs,  traditions,  —  clouds  that  come 

and  go; 
The  customs  of  the  Church  are  Peter's 
rock. 
Roger  of  York.     Saving   tliine   order! 
But  King  Henry  sware 


716 


BECKET. 


That,    saving    his    King's    kingsh'p    he 

would  grant  thee 
The  crown   itself.     Saving    thine  order, 

Thomas, 
Is  black  and  wliite  a'  once,  and  comes  to 

noujiht. 
O   bolster'd   up   with   stubbornness    and 

pride. 
Wilt  thou  destroy  the  Church  in  fighting 

for  it, 
And  bring  us  all  to  shame  ? 

Becket.  Eo^er  of  York, 

"When  I  and  thou  were  youth.s  in  Theo- 
bald's house. 
Twice  did  ihy  malice  and  th}'  calumnies 
Exile  me  from  tlie  face  of  Theobald. 
Now  I  am  Canterbury  and  tliou  art  York. 
Roger  of  York.     And  is  not  York  the 

peer  of  Canterbury  ? 
Did  not   Great   Gregory  bid   St.   Austin 

here 
.?ound  two  archbishoprics,  London  and 

York? 
Becket.     What    came    of    that ''     The 

first  archbishop  fied, 
And  York  lay  barren  for  a  hundred  years. 
Why,  by  ihis  rule,  Foliot  may  claim  the 

pall 
For  Loudon  too. 

Foliot.  And  with  good  reason  too, 

For  London  had  a  temple  and  a  priest 
When  Canterbury  hardly  bore  a  name. 
Becket.     The  pagan  temple  of  a  pagan 

Rome! 
The  heathen   priesthood    of    a    heathen 

creed ! 
Thou  goest  beyond  thy.«elf  in  petulancy  ! 
Who   made    thee    London  ?     Who,    but 

Canterbury  ? 
John    of    Oxford.     Peace,    peace,    my 

lords  !  these  customs  are  no  longer 
As   Canterbury   calls    them,    wandering 

clouds, 
But  l)y  the  King's  command  are  written 

down, 
And  by  the  King's  command,  I,  John  of 

Oxford, 
The  President  of  this  Council,  read  them. 
Becket.  Read ! 

John  of  Oxfiird  (reads).  "All  causes 
of  advowsons  and  presentations,  whether 
between  laymen  or  clerics,  shall  be  tried 
in  the  King's  court." 

Becket.     But  that  I  cannot  sign  :  for 

that  would  drag 
The  cleric  before  the  civil  judgment-seat, 
And  on  a  matter  wholly  spiritual. 


John  of  Oxford.  "  If  any  cleric  be  ac- 
cused of  felony,  the  Church  shall  not  pro- 
tect him  ;  but  he  shall  answer  to  the  sum- 
mons of  the  King's  court  to  be  tried 
therein.'" 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign. 
Is  not  the  Church  the  visible  Lord  on 

earth  ? 
Shall  hands  that  do  create  the  Lord  be 

bound 
Behind  the  back  like  laymen-criminals  ?  j 

The   Lord  be  judged  again  by  Pilate?       ■ 
No!  1 

■Tchn  of  Oxford.  "  When  a  bishopric 
falls  vacant,  the  King,  till  an/jther  be 
appointed,  shall  receive  the  revenues 
thereof." 

Becket.     And    that  I  cannot  sign.     Is 
the  King's  treasury 
A  fit  ])lace  for  the  moneys  of  the  Church, 
That  be  the  patrimony  of  the  poor  ? 

John  of  Oxford.  "  And  when  the  va- 
cancy is  to  be  filled  up,  the  King  shall 
sunmion  the  chapter  of  that  church  to 
court,  and  the  election  shall  be  made  in 
the  Chapel  Royal,  with  the  consent  of 
our  lord  the  King,  and  by  the  advice  of 
his  Government." 

Becket.     And  that  I  cannot  sign :  tor 
that  would  make 
Our  island-Church  a  schism  from  Chris- 
tendom, 
And  weight  down  all  free  choice  beneath 
the  throne. 
Foliot.     And  was  thine  own  election  so 
canonical, 
Good  father  ? 

Becket.  If  it  were  not,  Gilbert  Foliot, 
I  mean  to  cross  the  sea  to  France  and 

lay 
My  crozier  in  the  Holy  Father's  hands, 
And   bid    him   recreate  me,  Gilbert  Fo- 
liot. 
Foliot.     Nay  ;  by  another  of  these  cus- 
toms thou 
Wilt  not  be  .snffer'd  so  to  cross  the  seas 
Without  the  license  of  our  lord  the  Kingo 
Beck'-f.     That,  too,  I  cannot  sign. 
De  Broc,  De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse, 
De  Morville,  start  u)>  —  a  cla.'ih  of 
swords.  S'tt^i  ^^^  obey! 

Becket.     My  lords,  is  this  a  combat  oi" 
a  council  1 
Are  ye  my  masters,  or  my  lord  the  King? 
Ye  make  this  clashing  for  no  love  o'  the 

customs 
Or  constitutions,  or  whate'er  ye  call  them, 


i 


BECKET. 


717 


But  that  there  be  among  you  those  that 

hold 
Lauds  reft  from  Caiiieilmry. 

De  Droc.         Aud  meau  to  keep  them, 
In  spite  of  thee  ! 

Lords  {shouting).     Sign,  and  obey  the 

CTOWTl  ! 

Beckct.     The  crown  ?     Sliall  I  do  less 

for  Canterbury 
Than  Henry  for  the  crown  ?     King  Ste- 
phen gave 
Many  of  the  crown   hinds  to  those  that 

heljtt  him  ; 
So  did  Matilda,  the  Kinj; 'smother.  Mark, 
When  Henry  came  into  his  own  again, 
Then  he  took  back  not  only  Stephen's 

gifts, 
But   his   own    mother's,   lest   the  crown 

should  be 
Shorn  of  ancestral  splendor.      This  did 

Henry. 
Shall  I  do  Ice^s  for  mine  own  Canterbury  ? 
And  thou,  De  Broc,  that  boldest    Salt- 
wood  Castle  — 
De  Broc.     And  mean  to  hold  it,  or  — 
Bechet.  To  have  my  life. 

De  Broc.    The  King  is  quick  to  anger ; 

if  thou  anyer  him, 
We  wait  but  the  King's  word  to  strike 

thee  dead. 
Beckct.     Strike,  and  I  die  the  death  of 

martyrdom; 
Strike,  and  ye  set  these  customs  by  my 

death 
Ringing  their  own   death-knell    thro'  all 

the  realm. 
Herbert.     And  I  can  tell  you,  lords,  ye 

are  all  as  like 
To  lodge  a  fear  in  Thomas  Beckct's  heart 
As  find  a  hare's  form  in  a  lion's  cave. 
John    of  Oxford.      Ay,    sheathe    your 

swords,  ye  will  displease  the  King. 
De  Broc.     Why  down  then  thou  !  but 

an  he  come  to  Salt  wood. 
By  God's  death,  thou  shalt  stick  him  like 

a  calf  !  \Sheathiiif/  his  sword. 

Hilari/.     0  my  good  lord,  I  do  entreat 

thee  —  sign. 
Save    the  King's   honor  here   before   his 

barons. 
He   hath   sworn  that   thou  shouldst  sign. 

and  now  but  shuns 
The  semblance  of  defeat ;  I  have  heard 

him  say 
He  means  no  more ;  so  if  thou  siga  my 

lord, 
That  were  but  as  the  shadow  of  an  assent. 


Becket.    'T  would   seem   too  like   the 

substance,  if  I  sign'd. 
Philip  dc  Eteemosijna.     My  lord,  thine 

ear  !     I  have  the  ear  of  the  Pope. 
As   thou  hast   honor  for  the  Pope   our 

master, 
Have  jiity  on  him,  sorely  ])rest  upon 
By  the  fierce  Emperor  and  his  Antipope 
Thou    knowest  he  was  ft  reed   to   fly  tc 

France ; 
He  jivay'd  me  to  pra\-  thee  to  ])acify 
Thy   King ;    for  if  thou  go  against  thy 

King, 
Then  must   he  likewise  go   against  thy 

King, 
And  then  thy  King  might  join  the  Anti- 
pope, 
And  that  would  shake  the  Pa])acy  as  it 

stands. 
Besides,  thy  King  swore  to  our  cardinals 
He  meant  no  harm  nor  damage  to  the 

Church. 
Smooth  thou  his  jiride  —  thy  signing  is 

but  form  ; 
Nay,  and  should    harm  come  of  it,  it  is 

the  Pope 
Will  be  to  blame  —  not  thou.     Over  and 

over 
He  told  me  thou  shouldst  pacify  the  King, 
Lest  there  be  battle  between  Heaven  and 

Earth, 
And   Earth  should  get  the  better  —  for 

the  time. 
Cannot    the   Pope   absolve   thee  if  thou 

sign  ? 
Becket.     Have  I  the  orders  of  the  Holy 

Father  ? 
Philip  de  Eleeniosjina.    Orders,  my  lord 

—  why,  no;  for  what  am  I? 
The  secret  whis])er  of  the  Holy  Father. 
Thou,  that  hast  been  a  statesman,  couldst 

thou  always 
Blurt  thy  free  mind  to  the  air  ? 

Becket.    If  KoniP  be  feeble,  then  should 

I  be  firm. 
Philip.     Take  it  not  that  way  —  balk 

not  the  Pope's  will. 
When  he  hath  shaken  off  the  Emperor. 
He  heads  the  Church  against  the  ICing 

with  thee. 
Richard  de  Hastings  (kneeling).  Becket, 

I  am  the  oldest  of  the  Templars ; 
I  knew  thy  father;  he  would  be  mine  age 
Had  he  lived  now ;  think  of  me  as  thy 

father ! 
Behold    thy    father     kneeling    to    thee, 

Becket 


718 


BECKET. 


Submit ;  I  promise  thee  on  my  salvation 
That  thou  wilt  hear  no  more  o'  the  cus- 
toms. 
Bechet.         What ! 
Hath  Henry  told  thee  ?  hast  thou  talk'd 
with  him  f 
Another  Teni/ilar  (kneelhu/).     Father,  I 
am  the  \  oungest  of  the  Templars, 
Look  on  me  as  I  were  thy  bodily  sou, 
For,  like  a  son,  I  lift  my  hands  to  thee. 
Philip.     Wilt  thou  hold  out  for  ever, 
Thomas  Becket  t 
Dost  thou  not  hear  1 

Becket   {signs).     Why  —  there   then  — 
there —  I  sign. 
And  swear  to  obey  the  customs. 

Foliot.  Is  it  thy  will, 

My  lord  Archbishop,  that  we  too  should 
sign  ? 
Becket.     O  ay,  by  that  canonical  obedi- 
ence 
Thou  still  hast  owed  thy  father,  Gilbert 
Foliot. 
Foliot.     Loyally  and  with  good  faith, 

my  lord  Archbishop  ? 
Becket.     O  ay,  with   all   that   loyalty 
and  good  faith 
Thou  still  hast  shown  thv  primate,  Gilbert 
Foliot. 
[Becket  draws  apart  ivith  Herbert. 
Herbert,    Herbert,   have   I   betray'd   the 

Church  ? 
I'll  have  the  paper  back  —  blot  out  my 
name. 
Herbert.     Too  late,  my  lord :  you  see 

they  are  signing  there. 
Becket.     False   to   myself  —  it    is    the 
will  of  God 
To  break  me,  prove  me  nothing  of  my- 
self! 
This  Almoner  hath  tasted  Henry's  gold. 
The  cardinals  have  finger'd  Henry's  gold. 
And  Rome  is  venal  ev'n  to  rottenness. 
I  see  it,  I  see  it. 

I  am  no  soldier,  as  he  said  —  at  least 
No  leader.     Herbert,  till  I  hear  from  the 

Pope 
I  will  suspend  myself  from  all  my  func- 
tions. 
If     fast     and     prayer,     the     lacerating 
scourge  — 
Foliot  (from  the  table).     My  lord  Arch- 
bishop, thou  hast  yet  to  seal. 
Becket.     First,  Foliot,  let  me  see  what 
I  have  sign'd.        [Goes  to  the  table. 
What,  this  !  and  this  !  —  what !  new  and 
old  together ! 


Seal  ?    If  a  seraph  shouted  from  the  sun, 
And  bade  me  seal  against  the  rights  of  the 

Church, 
I  would   anathematize   him.     I  will  not 

seal.  [Exit  with  Herbert. 

^n^erKiNG  Henry. 

Henry.      Where 's  Thomas  ?    hath   he 
sign'd  ?  show  me  the  papers  ! 

Sign'd  and  not  seal'd  !     How  's  that  ? 
John  of  Oxford.         He  would  not  seal. 

And  when  he  sign'd,  his  face  was  stormy 
red  — 

Shame,  wrath,  I  know  not  what.     He  sat 
down  there 

And   dropt  it  in  his  hands,  and  then  a 
paleness, 

Like  the  wan  twilight  after  sunset,  crept 

Up  even  to  the  tonsure,  and  he  groau'd, 

"  False  to  myself !  It  is  the  will  of  God ! " 
Henry.     God's  will  be  what  it  will,  the 
man  shall  seal. 

Or  I  will  seal  his  doom.     ]\Iy  burgher's 
son  — 

Nay,  if  I  cannot  break  him  as  the  prelate, 

I'll  crush  him  as  the  subject.     Send  for 
him  back.  [iiits  on  his  throne. 

Barons  and  bishops  of  our  lealm  of  Eng- 
land, 

After  the  nineteen  winters  of  King  Ste- 
phen — 

A  reign  which  was  no  reign,  when  none 
could  sit 

By  his  own  hearth  in  peace ;   when  mur- 
der common 

As  nature's  death,  like  Egypt's  plague, 
had  fiird 

All  things  with  blood  ;  when  every  door- 
Avay  blush 'd, 

Dash'd  red  with  that  unhallow'd  passover ; 

When  every  baron  ground  his  blade  in 
blood  ; 

The  household  dough  was  kneaded   up 
with  blood ; 

The     millwheel     turn'd    in    blood ;    the 
wholesome  plough 

Lay  rusting  in  the  furrow's  yellow  weeds, 

Till  fann'ne   dwarf t  the   race  —  I  came, 
your  King ! 

Nor  dwelt  alone,  like  a  soft  lord  of  the 
East, 

In  mine  own  hall,  and  sucking  thro' fools' 
ears 

The     flatteries     of    corruption  —  went 
abroad 

Thro'  all  my  counties,  spied  my  people's 
ways ; 


BECKET. 


719 


Yea,  heard  the  churl  against  the  baion  — 

vea, 
And   (lid   him  justice  ;  sat  in  mine  own 

courts 
Judging  my  judges,  that  had  found  a  King 
Who   rauued  confusions,  made  the  twi- 

ligiit  day. 
And  struck  a  shape  from  out  tiie  vague, 

and  law 
From    madness.     And   the    event — our 

fallows  tillM, 


Fitzurse.    Because  my  lord  of  Canter- 
bury — 
De  Tracy.  Ay, 

This  lord  of  Canterbury  — 

De  Brito.  As  is  his  wont 

Too   much  of  late  whene'er  your  royal 

rights 
Are  mooted  in  our  councils  — 

Fitzurse.  —  made  an  uproar. 

Henry.    And  Becket  had  my  bosom  on 
all  this; 


Mucii    corn,    repcopled    towns,    a   realm     If  ever  man  hy  bonds  of  gratefulness  — 


agam. 
So    far    my   course,   albeit    not    glassy- 
smooth, 
Had  prospei'd  in  the  main,  but  suddenly 
Jarr'd  on  this  lock.     A  cleric  violated 
The  daughter  of  his  host,  ami  muider'd 

him. 
Bishops  —  York,    London,    Chichester, 

Westminster  — 
Yc   haled   this  tonsured  devil  into  your 

courts ; 
But  since  your  canon  will  not  let  you 

take 
Life  for  a  life,  ye  but  degraded  him 
Where   I   had  hang'd   him.     What  doth 

hard  murdi'r  care 
For    degradation  i    and    that   made   me 

muse, 
Being  boundcn  by  my  coronation  oath 
To  do  men  justice.    Look  to  it,  your  own 

selves ! 
Say  that  a  cleric  murdcr'd  an  ar(hbi<hop, 
What  could  ye  do  'i     Degrade,  imprison 

him  — 
Not  death  for  death. 

John  of  Oxford.     But  I,  my  liege,  could 

swear, 
To  death  for  deatli. 

Henry.       And,  looking  thro'  my  reign, 
I  found  a  hundred  ghastly  murders  done 


1  raised  him  from  the  puddle  of  the  gut- 
ter, 

I  made  him  porcelain  from  the  clay  of 
the  city  — 

Thought  that  I  kncAv  him,  err'd  thro' 
love  of  him. 

Hoped,  were  he  chosen  archbishop, 
Church  and  Crown, 

Two  sisters  gliding  in  an  equal  dance. 

Two  rivets  (gently  flowing  side  by  side  — 

But  no! 

The  bird  that  moults  sings  the  same  song 
again. 

The  snake  that  sloughs  comes  out  a 
snake  again. 

Snake  —  ay,  but  he  that  lookt  a  fangless 
one, 

Issues  a  venomous  adder. 

For  he,  when  having  dofft  the  Chancel- 
lor's robe  — 

Flimg  the  Great  Seal  of  England  in  my 
face  — 

Claim'd  some  of  our  crown  lands  for 
Canterbury  — 

My  comrade,  boon  companion,  my  co- 
reveller. 

The  master  of  his  master,  the  King's 
king.  — 

God's  eyes !  I  had  meant  to  make  him 
all  but  king. 


By  men,  the  scum  and  ottal  of  the  Church  ;    Chancellor- Archbishop,   he    might   well 
"         -      -     -  -     -  .  have  sway'd 

All   England    under   Henry,   the    young 
King, 


Then,   glancing    thro'    the    story  of  thi.s 

realm, 
1  came  on  certain  wholesome  usages. 


Liost    in    desuetude,   of    my   grandsire's    When  I  was  hence.   What  did  the  traitor 


day, 

Good  royal  customs  —  had  them  written 
fair 

For  John    of   Oxford    here    to    read    to 
you. 
John  of  Oxford.  And  I  can  easily  swear 
to  these  as  being 

The  King's  will  and  God's  will  and  jus- 
tice ;  yet 

\  could  but  read  a  part  to-day,  because  — 


say  ? 

False  to  liimself, but  ten-fold  false  to  me? 
The  will  of  God  —  whv,  then  it  is  my 

will  — 
Is  he  coming? 

Messemjer  {entering).     With  a  crowd  of 

worshippers, 
And  holds  his  cross  before  him  thro'  the 

crowd. 
As  one  that  puts  himself  in  sanctuary 


720 


BECKET. 


Henry.     His  cross ! 

Roger  of  York.     His  cross  !    I  '11  front 
him,  cross  to  cross. 

[Exit  Roger  of  York. 
Henrfi.   His  cross  !  it  is  the  traitor  that 
imputes 
Treachery  to  liis  King ! 
It  is  not  safe  for  me  to  look  upon  him. 
Away  —  with  nie  ! 

[Goes  in  icilh  his  Barons  to  the  Coun- 
cil Chamber,  the  door  of  which  is 
left  open. 

Enter  Beckv:,t,  holding  his  cross  of  silver 
be/bre  him.  The  Bishops  come  round 
him. 

Hereford.     The    King   will    not    nbide 
thee  with  thy  cross. 
Permit  me,  my  good  lord,  to  bear  it  for 

thee, 
Being  thy  chaplain. 

Becket.  No  :  it  must  protect  me. 

Herbert.     As  once  he  bore  the  standard 
of  the  Angles, 
So  now  he  bears  the  standard  of  the  an- 
gels. 
Foliot.   I  am  the  Dean  of  the  province  : 
let  me  bear  it. 
Make  not  thy   King   a    traitorous    mur- 
derer. 
Becket.     Did   not  your    barons    draw 
their  swords  against  me  ? 

Enter  Roger  of  York,  with  his  cross,  ad- 
vaticing  to  Becket. 
Becket.      Wherefore     dost    thou     pre- 
sume to  bear  tliy  cross. 
Against     the     solemn     ordinance     from 

Rome, 
Out  of  thy  province  ? 
Roger  of  York-     Why   dost  thou  pre- 
sume, 
Arm'd  witii   thy  cross,  to  come    before 

the  King? 
If  Canterbury  bring  his  cross  to  court, 
Let  York  bear  liis  to  mate  with  Canter- 
bury. 
Foliot  [seizing  hold  of  Becicet's  ci-oss). 
Nay,  nay,  my  lord,  thou  must  not  brave 

the  King. 
Nay,  let  me  have  it.     I  will  have  it  ! 
Becket.  Away ! 

[Flinging  him  of. 
Foliot.     He  fasts,  they  say,  this  mitred 
Hercules  ! 
He  fast !  is  that  an  arm  of  fast  1     My 
lord, 


Hadst  thou  not  sign'd,  I  had  gone  along 

with  thee  ; 
But  thou  the  shepherd  hast  oetray'd  the 

sheep, 
And  thou  art  perjured,  and  thou  wilt  not 

seal. 
As    Chancellor   thou    wast    against  the 

Church, 
Now  as   Aichbishop    goest    against    the 

King  ; 
For,  like  a  fool,  thou  knowst  no  middle 

way. 
Ay,  ay  !  but  art  thou  stronger  than  the 

King  ? 
Becket.      Strong  —  not    in    mine  own 

self,  but  Heaven  ;  true 
To     either    function,    holding    it;     and 

thou 
Fast,   scourge   thvself,   and  mortify  thy 

flesh, 
Not     spirit — thou     remainest      Gilbert 

Foliot, 
A  worldly  follower  of  the  worldly  strong. 
I,  bearing    this  great    ensign,    make    it 

clear 
Under  what  Prince  I  fight. 

Foliot.  My  lord  of  York, 

Let  us  go  in  to  the  Council,  where  our 

hisliops 
And  our  great  lords  will  sit  in  judgment 

on  him. 
Becket.     Sous  sit  in  judgment  on  their 

father !  —  then 
The  spire  of    Holy  Church    may  prick 

the  graves  — 
Her  crypt  among  the  stars.     Sign  1  seal? 

I  ])romised 
The  King  to  obey  these  customs,  not  yet 

written, 
Saving  mine  order  ;  true  too,  that  when 

written, 
I  sign'd   them — being  a  fool,  as  Foliot 

caird  me. 
I  hold  not  by  my  signing.     Get  ye  hence, 
Tell  what  I  say  to  the  King. 

[E.xrunt  Hereford,  Foliot,  and  other 

Bishops. 

Roger  of  York.     The  Church  will  hate 

thee.  [Exit. 

Becket.     Serve    my    best     friend    and 

make  him  my  worst  foe  ; 
Fight  for  the  Church,  and  set  the  Church 

against  me  ! 
Herbert.      To  be  honest   is  to  set  all 

knaves  against  thee. 
Ah !      Thomas,     excommunicate      them 

aU! 


BECKET. 


721 


Hereford  {reentering).     I  cannot  brook 
the  turmoil  thou  Iiast  ritised. 
I  would,   my  lord    Thomas  of   Canter- 
bury 
Thou  wort  plain   Thomas  and   not  Can- 

terlnirv, 
Or   that  thou   wouldst     deliver   Canter- 
bury 
To  our  King's   hands  again,  and  be  at 
peace. 
Hilar fi    (rcenteri)u/).      For    hath      not 
tliiue  ambition  ^et  the  Cliurcli 
This  day  between  the  h;unnur  and  the 

anvil  — 
Fealtv  to  the  King,  obedience    to  thy- 
'  self  ? 
Herbert.     What  say  the  bishops  ? 
Hilar  I/.       Some  have  pleaded  for  him, 
But  the  King  rages  —  most  are  witli  the 

King  ; 
And  some  are  reeds,  that  one  time  sway 

to  the  current. 
And  to  the  wind  another.     But  we  hold 
Thou   art   forsworn  ;  and     no    forsworn 

Archbishop 
Shall  helm   the   Church.     We   therefore 

place  ourselves 
Under  the  shield  and  safeguard  of    the 

Pope, 
And    cite   thee  to     appear    before    the 

Pope 
And  answer  thine    accusers.    .  .    .    Art 
thou  deaf  ? 
Becket.     I  hear  you.         [Chishofarms. 
Hilary.     Dost  thou  hear  those  others  ? 
Becket.  Ay ! 

Ro(jer     of     York      (reenteriw/).       The 
King's  "  God's  eyes !  "  come   now 
so  thick  and  fast, 
We  fear  that  he  may  reave  thee  of  thine 

own. 
Come  on,  come  on !  it  is  not  fit  for  us 
To  see  the  proud  Archbishop  mutilated. 
Say  that  he  blind  thee  and   tear  out  thy 
tougne. 
Becket.     So  be  it.     He  begins  at  lop 
with  me  : 
They  crucified  St.  Peter  downward. 

Roger  of  York.  Nav, 

But  tor   their  sake  who  stagger  betwixt 

thine 
Appeal,  and  Henry's  angei-,  yield. 

Becket.  Hence,  Satan ! 

[Exit  RoGEK  OF  York. 

Fitzurse    (reentering).       My    lord,     the 

King     demands     three     hundred 

marks, 


Due  from   his  castles  of  Berkhamstead 

and  Eye 
When  thou  thereof  wast  warden. 

Becket.  Tell  the  King 

I  spent   thrice  that  in  fortifying  his  cas- 
tles. 
De  Tracy   {reentering).     My    lord,   the 
King     demands     seven     hundred 
marks. 
Lent   at    the  siege  of  Toulouse   by   the 
King. 
Becket.     I  led  seven  hundred   knights 

and  fought  his  wars. 
De    Brito    {reentering).      ^ly    lord,  the 
King  demands  five  hundred  marks. 
Advanced   thee   at   his   instance    by   the 

Jews, 
For  which  the  King  was  bound  security. 
Becket.     I   thought   it    was    a   gift ;  I 
thought  it  was  a  gift. 

Enter  Lord   Leicester     {followed  by 
Barons  arid  Bishops). 

Leicester.    My  lord,  I  come  unwillingly. 
The  King 
Demands   a  strict   account  of   all   those 

revenues 
From  all  the  vacant  sees  and  abbacies, 
Which  came  into  thy  iiaiuls  when  Chan- 
cellor. 
Becket.      How      much      might      that 

amount  to,  my  lord  Leicester  ? 
Leicester.     Some    thirty  —  forty   thou- 
sand silver  marks. 
Becket.     Arc  these  your  customs  1     O 
my  good  lord  Leicester, 
The  King  and  I  were  brothers.    All  I  .had 
I  lavish'd  for  the  glory  of  tlie  King ; 
I  shone  from  him,    for    him,  his  glory, 

his 
Reflection  :  now  the  glory  of  the  Church 
Hath   swallow'd    up    the    glory   of    the 

King ; 
I  am  his  no  more,  but  hers.     Grant  ma 

one  day 
To  ponder  these  demands. 

Leicester.  Hear  first  thy  sentence  I 

The  King  and  all  his  lords  — 

Becket.  Son,  first  hear  me  ! 

Leicester.     Nay,   nay,  canst  thou,   that 
boldest  thine  estates 
In  fee  and  barony  of  the  King,  decline 
The  judgment  of  the  King  '? 

Becket.  The" King!     I  hold 

Nothing  in  fee  and  barony  of  the  King. 
Whatever  the  Church  owns  —  she  holds 
it  in 


722 


BECKET. 


Free  and  perpetual  alms,  unsubject  to 

One  earthly  sceptre. 
Leicester.     Nay,    but    bear  tby    judg- 
ment. 

The  King  and  all  his  baions  — 

Becket.  Judjiment !  Barons! 

Who  but  the  bridegroom  dares  to  judge 
the  bride, 

Or  he    the    bridegroom    may   appoint  ? 
Not  he 

That  is  not  of  the  house,  but   from  the 
street 

Stain'd  with  the  mire  thereof. 

I  had  been  so  true 

To  Henry  and  mine  office  that  the  King 

Would    ihrone   me   in    the   great   Arch- 
bishopric : 

And  I,  that  knew  mine  own  infirmity, 

For    the   King's    pleasure    rather    than 
God's  cause 

Took  it  upon   me  —  err'd    thro'  love  of 
him. 

Now  therefore  God  from  me  withdraws 
Himself, 

And  the  King  too. 

What !  forty  thousand  marks ! 

Why   thou,   the    King,    the    Pope,    the 
Saints,  the  world. 

Know  that  when  made  Archbishop  I  was 
freed. 

Before  the  Prince  and  chief  Justiciary, 

From  every  bond  and  debt  and  obliga- 
tion 

Incurr'd  as  Chancellor. 

Hear  me,  son. 

As  gold 

Outvalues    dross,    light    darkness,    Abel 
Cain, 

The  soul  the  body,  and  the  Church  the 
Throne, 

I  charge  thee,  upon  pain  of  mine  anath- 
ema, 

That   thou   obey,   not   me,   but    God   in 
me. 

Rather  than  Henry.     I  refuse  to  stand 

By  the  King's  censure,  make  my  cry  to 
the  Pope, 

By  whom    I  will   be  judged ;  refer  my- 
self. 

The  King,  these  customs,  all  the  Church, 
to  him, 

And  under  his  authority —  I  depart. 

[  Going. 
[Leicester  looks  at  him  doubtinfjly. 

Am  I  a  prisoner ' 
Leicester.  By  St.  Lazarus,  no  ! 

I  am  confounded  by  thee.     Go  in  peace. 


De  Brnc.    In  peace  now  —  but  after. 

Take  that  for  earnest. 
[Flings  a  bone  at  Id tn  from  the  rushes. 
De  Brito,  Fitsurse,  De  Tracy,  and  others 
{flinging  wisps  of  rushes).  Ay,  go  in  peace, 
caitiff,  caitiJEfJ  And  that  too,  perjured 
prelate  —  and  that,  turncoat  shaveling! 
There,  there,  ihere!  traitor,  traitor,  trai- 
tor! 

Becket.     Mannerless  wolves! 

[Turning  and  facing  them, 

Herbert.         Enough,  my  lord,  enough  \ 

Becket.      Barons   of    England   and  of 

Normandy, 

When  what  yc  shake  at  doth  but  seem 

to  fly, 
True  test  of  coward,  ye  follow  with  a 

yell. 
But  I  that  threw  the  mightiest  knight  of 

France, 
Sir  Engelram  de  Trie,  — 

Herbert.  pjuough,  my  lord. 

Becket.     More    than   enough.     1   play 
the  fool  again. 

Enter  Herald. 

Herald.     The    King    commands    you, 
upon  pain  of  death. 
That  none  should  wrong  or  injure  your 
Archbishop. 
Foliot.     Deal   gently  with    the   young 

man  Absalom. 
[Great  doors  of  the  Hall  at  the  back  open, 
and  discover  a  crowd.    They  shout : 
Blessed  is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord ! 

Scene  IV. — Refectory  of  the    Monastery 
at    Northampton.      A     Banquet    on    the 

Tables. 

Enter  Becket.     Becket's  Retainers. 

First  Retainer.     Do  thou  speak  first. 

Second  Retainer.  Nay,  thou !  Nay, 
thou !  Hast  not  thou  drawn  the  short 
straw  ? 

First  Retainer.  My  lord  Archbishop, 
wilt  thou  ]iermii:  us  — 

Becket.  To  speak  without  stammering 
and  like  a  free  man  ?     Ay. 

First  Retainer.  My  lord,  permit  us 
then  to  leave  thv  service. 

Becket.     When  1 

First  Retainer.     Now. 

Becket.     To-night  ? 

First  Retainer.     To-night,  my  lord. 

Becket.     And  why'? 


BECKET. 


723 


First  Retainer.  My  lord,  we  leave  thee 
not  without  tears. 

Becket.  Tears?  Why  not  stay  with 
me  then  ? 

First  Retainer.  My  lord,  we  camiot 
yield  thee  an  answer  altogether  to  thy 
satisfuctiou. 

Becket.  1  warrant  you,  or  ycur  own 
cjf.lier.  Shiill  1  tind  \ou  one?  The 
Kinj^  hath  frowned  upon  me. 

First  Retainer.  That  is  not  altogether 
our  answer,  my  lord. 

Becket.  No";  yet  all  but  all.  Go,  go! 
Ye  iiave  eaten  of  my  dish  and  drunken 
of  my  cu])  for  a  dozen  years. 

First  Retainer.  And  so  we  have.  We 
mean  thee  no  wrung.  Wilt  thou  not  say, 
"  God  bless  you,"  ere  we  go  ? 

Becket.  God  bless  you  all!  God  redden 
your  pale  blood!  But  mine  is  human- 
red  ;  and  when  ye  thall  hear  it  is  poured 
out  upon  earth,  and  see  it  mouniiug  to 
Heaven,  my  God  bless  you,  tiiat  seems 
sweet  to  you  now,  will  blast  and  blind 
you  like  a  eurse. 

First  Retainer.  We  hope  not,  my  lord. 
Our  humblest  thanks  for  your  blessing. 
Farewell !  [E.reimt  Ketainehs. 

Becket.  Farewell,  friends !  farewell, 
swallows !  I  wrong  the  bird  ;  she  leaves 
only  the  nest  she  built,  they  leave  the 
builder.  Why  ?  Am  I  to  be  murdered 
to-night  ?  [Knocking  at  the  door. 

Attendant.  Here  is  a  missive  left  at 
the  gate  by  one  from  the  casrle. 

Becket.  Cornwall's  hand  or  Leices- 
ter's :  they  write  marvellously  alike. 

[Reading. 

"  Fly  at  once  to  France,  to  King  Louis 
of  France  :  there  be  those  about  our  King 
who  would  have  thy  blood." 

AVas  not  my  lord  of  Leicester  bidden  to 
our  supper? 

Attendant.  Ay,  my  lord,  and  divers 
other  eails  and  barons.  But  the  hour  is 
past,  and  onr  brother,  Master  Cook,  he 
makes  moan  that  all  be  a-getting  cold. 

Becket.  And  I  make  my  moan  along 
with  him.  Cold  after  wnriu,  winter  after 
summer,  and  the  golden  leaves,  these 
earls  and  barous,  th:\t  ching  to  me,  frosted 
off  me  by  the  first  cold  frown  of  the  King. 
Cold,  but  look  how  the  table  steams,  like 
a  heathen  altar;  nay,  like  the  altar  at 
Jerusalem.  Shall  God's  good  gifts  be 
wasted?  None  of  them  here  !  Call  in  the 
ooor  from  the  streets,  and  let  them  feast. 


Herbert.  That  is  the  parable  of  our 
blessed  Lord. 

Becket.  And  why  slioiild  not  the  para 
ble  of  our  blessed  Lord  be  acted  again  ? 
Call  in  the  ])oor!  The  Church  is  ever  at 
variance  wiiii  the  kings,  and  ever  at  one 
with  tl.e  pcjor.  I  marked  a  group  of 
lazais  ii.  the  market  -  place  —  half  -  rag, 
iialf-sore  —  beggars,  poor  rogues  (Heaven 
bless  'em)  who  never  saw  nor  dreamec 
of  such  a  banquet.  I  will  amaze  them. 
Call  them  in,  1  say.  They  shall  hence- 
forward be  my  earls  and  barons  ■ —  our 
lords  and  masters  in  Christ  Jesus. 

[Exit  Herbert. 

If  the  King  hold  his  i)urpose,  1  ani  my- 
self a  beggar.  Forty  thousand  marks .' 
forty  thousand  devils  —  and  these  craven 
bishops ! 

A  Poor  Man  (entering)  with  his  dog. 
My  lord  Archbishop,  may  I  come  in  with 
my  poor  friend,  my  dog?  The  King's 
verdurer  caught  him  a -hunting  in  the 
forest,  and  cut  off  liis  paws.  The  dog 
followed  his  calling,  my  lord.  I  ha' 
carried  him  ever  so  many  miles  in  my 
arms,  and  he  licks  my  face  and  moans 
and  cries  out  ag;iinst  the  King. 

Becket.  Better  thy  dog  than  thee. 
The  King's  courts  would  use  thee  worse 
than  thy  dog  —  they  are  too  bloody. 
Were  the  Church  king,  it  would  be  other- 
wise. Poor  beast!  poor  beast!  set  him 
down.  I  will  bind  tij)  his  wounds  with 
my  napkin.  Give  him  a  bone,  give  him 
a  bone  !  Who  misuses  a  dog  would  mis- 
use a  child  —  they  cannot  speak  for 
themselves.  Past  help!  his  paws  are  imst 
help.     God  help  him  ! 

Enter  the  Begg.vrs  (and  seat  themselves  a, 
the  Tables).  Becket  and  Herbert 
wait  upon  them. 

First  Beggar.  Swine,  sheep,  ox  — ■ 
here 's  a  French  supper.  When  thieves 
fall  out,  honest  men  — 

Second  Beggar.  Is  the  Archbishop  a 
thief  who  i:ives  thee  thy  supper  ? 

First  Beggar.  Well,  then,  how  does  it 
go?  When  honest  men  fall  out,  thieves 
—  no,  it  can't  be  that. 

Second  Beggar.  Who  stole  the  widow's 
one  sitting  hen  o'  Sunday,  when  she  was 
at  mass  ? 

First  Beggar.  Come,  come !  thou  hadst 
thy  share  on  her.  Sitting  hen!  Our 
Lord  Becket 's  our  great  sitting-hen  cock, 


724 


BECKET. 


and  we  shouki  n't  ha'  been  sitting  here  if 
the  barous  and  bi.-liops  had  n't  been  a- 
sittiug  on  the  Archbishop. 

Becket.  Ay,  the  princes  sat  in  judg- 
ment against  nie,  and  the  Lord  liath  pre- 
pared your  table  —  Sederunt  principes, 
ederunt  pauperes. 

A  Voice,    Becket,  beware  of  the  icnife ! 

Becket.     Whospoice? 

Third  Bec/i/ar.  Nobody,  my  lord. 
What 's  that,  my  lord  ? 

Becket.     Venison. 

Third  Befjijar.     Venison  ? 

Becket.     Buck;  deer,  as  3'ou  call  it. 

Third  Begjar.  King's  meat  !  By  the 
Lord,  won't  we  pray  for  your  lordship ! 

Becket.  And,  my  cliildren,  your  prayers 
will  dojnore  for  me  in  the  day  of  peril 
that  dawns  darkly  and  drearily  over  the 
house  of  God — yea,  and  in  the  day  of 
judgment  also,  than  the  swords  of  the 
craven  sycophants  would  have  done  had 
they  remained  true  to  me  whose  bread 
they  have  partaken.  1  must  leave  you 
to  your  banquet.  Feed,  feast,  and  be 
merry.  Herbert,  for  the  sake  of  the 
Church  itself,  if  not  for  my  own,  I  must 
fly  to  France  to-night.  Come  with  me. 
[Exit  with  Herbert. 

Third  Beggar.  Here  —  all  of  you  — 
my  lord's  health  [iheg  drink).  Well  — 
if  that  is  n't  goodly  wine  — 

First  Beggar.  Then  there  is  n't  a  goodly 
wench  to  serve  him  with  it :  they  were 
fighting  for  her  to-day  in  the  street. 

Third  Briggar.     Peace  ! 

First  Beggar. 

The  black  sheep  baaed  to  the  miller's  ewe  lamb, 

The  miller  "s  away  for  to-night. 
Black  sheup,  quoth  she,  too  black  a  siu  for  me. 

And  what  said  the  black  sheep,  mv  mas- 
ters 1 

We  can  make  a  black  sin  white. 

Third  Beggar.     Peace ! 

First  Beggar„     "  Ewe  lamb,  ewe  lamb, 
I  am  here  by  the  dam." 

But  the  miller  came  home  that  night, 
And  so  dusted  his  back  with  the  meal  in 
his  sack. 

That  he  made  the  black  sheep  white. 

Third  Beggar.  Be  we  not  of  the  fam- 
ily ?  be  we  not  a-supping  with  the  head 
of  the  family  ?  be  we  not  in  my  lord's 
own  refractory  ?  Out  from  among  us  ; 
thou  art  our  black  sheep. 


Enter  the  four  KnightS. 

Fitzurse.  Sheep,  said  he?  And  sheep 
without  the  shepherd,  too.  Where  is  my 
lord  Archbishop  ?  Thou  the  histiest  and 
lousiest  of  this  Cain's  brotherhood,  an- 
swer. 

Third  Beggar.  With  Cain's  answer, 
my  lord.  Am  1  his  keeper  ?  Thou 
shouhlst  call  him  Cain,  not  me. 

Fitzurse.  So  I  do,  for  he  would  mur- 
der his  brother  the  State. 

Third  Beggar  {rising  and  advancing). 
No  my  lord ;  but  because  the  Lord  hath 
set  his  mark  upon  him  that  no  man 
should  murder  him. 

Fitzurse.     Where  is  he  1  where  is  he? 

Third  Beggar.  With  Cain  belike,  in 
the  land  of  Nod,  or  in  tlie  land  of  France 
for  aught  I  know. 

Fitzurse.  France!  Ha!  De  Morville, 
Tracy,  Brito  —  tied  is  he  1  Cross  swords 
all  of  you  !  swear  to  follow  him  !  Remem- 
ber the  Queen  ! 

'  [The  four  Kni  ;hts  cross  their  swords. 

De  Brito.     They  mock  us ;  he  is  here. 
[Ail  the  Beggars  rise  and  advance 
upon  them. 

Fitzurse.    Come,  you  filthy  knaves,  let 
us  pass. 

Third  Beggar.  Nay,  my  lord,  let  us 
pass.  We  be  a-going  home  after  our 
supper  in  all  humbleness,  my  lord  ;  for 
the  Archbishop  loves  humbleness,  my 
lord  ;  and  though  we  be  titty  to  four,  we 
daren't  fight  you  with  our  crutches,  my 
lord.  There  now,  if  thou  hast  not  laid 
hands  upon  me  !  and  my  fellows  know  that 
I  am  all  one  scale  like  a  fisli.  I  pray  God 
I  have  n't  given  thee  my  leprosy,  my  lord. 
[Fitzurse  shrinks  from  him  and  an- 
other presses  upon  De  Brito. 

De  Brito.     Away,  dog  ! 

Fourth  Beggar.  And  I  was  bit  by  a 
mad  dog  o'  Friday,  an'  I  be  half  dog  al- 
ready by  this  token,  that  tho'  I  can  drink 
wine  I  cannot  bide  water,  my  lord;  and 
I  want  to  bite,  I  want  to  bite,  and  they 
do  say  the  very  breath  catches. 

De  Brito.  Insolent  clown.  Shall  I 
smite  him  with  the  edge  of  the  sword? 

De  Morville.  No,  nor  with  the  flat  of  it 
either.  Smite  the  shepherd  and  the  sheep 
are  scattered.  Smite  the  sheep  and  the 
shepherd  will  excommunicate  thee. 

De  Brito.  Yet  my  fingers  itch  to  beat 
him  into  nothing. 


BECKET. 


725 


Fifth  Beggar.  So  do  mine,  my  lord.  I 
was  born  with  it,  and  sulphur  won't  bring 
it  out  o'  me.  But  for  all  that  tlie  Arch- 
bishop washed  my  feet  o'  Tuesday.  He 
likes  it,  my  lord. 

Sixth  Beggar.  And  see  iiere,  my  lord, 
this  rag  fro'  the  gangrene  i"  r.iy  leg.  It 's 
humbling  —  it  smells  o'  human  natur'. 
Wilt  thou  smell  it,  my  lord  ?  for  the 
Arciibishop  likes  th'»  smell  on  it,  my 
lord;  for  I  be  his  lord  and  master  i' 
Christ,  my  lurd. 

De  Moiville.  Pa  ugh !  we  shall  all  be 
poisoned.     Let  us  go. 

[They  draw  back,  Heggxhs  following. 

Seventh  Beggar,  My  lord,  I  ha'  three 
sisters  a-dying  at  home  o'  the  sweating 
sickness.  They  be  dead  while  1  be  a- 
supping. 

Eighth  Beggar.  And  I  ha'  nine  dar- 
ters i'  the  S])iial  that  be  dead  ten  times 
o'er  i'  one  day  wi'  the  ]nUrid  fever  ;  and 
I  bring  the  taint  on  it  along  wi'  me,  for 
the  Archbishop  likes  it,  my  lord. 

[Pi-essiiig  upon  the  Knights  till  they 
disappear  through  the  door. 

Third  Beggar.  Crutches,  and  itches, 
and  leprosies,  and  ulcers,  and  gangrenes, 
and  itinning  sores,  praise  ye  the  Lord, 
for  to-night  ye  have  saved  our  Arch- 
bishop ! 

First  Beggar.  I'll  go  back  again.  I 
hain't  half  done  yet. 

Herbert  of  Bosham  (entering).  My 
friends,  the  Archbishop  bids  you  good- 
night. He  hath  retired  to  rest,  and 
being  in  great  jeopardy  of  his  life,  he 
hath  made  his  bed  between  the  altars, 
from  whence  he  sends  me  \o  bid  you  this 
night  j)ray  for  him  who  hath  fed  you  in 
the  wilderness. 

Third  Beggar.  So  we  will — so  we 
will,  I  warrant  thee.  Becket  shall  be 
king,  and  the  Holy  Father  >hall  be  king, 
and  the  world  shall  live  by  the  King's 
venison  and  the  bread  o'  the  Lord,  and 
there  shall  'oe  no  more  poor  forever. 
Hurrah  !  Vive  le  Roy !  That 's  the 
English  of  it. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  —  Rosamund's  Bower.  A 
Garden  of  Flowers.  In  the  midst  a 
bank  of  wild-flowers  with  a  bench  be- 
fore it 


Voices  heard  singing  among  the  trees. 

D,„:t. 

1.  Is  it  the  wind  of  the  dawn  that  I  hear 

in  the  ]jine  overhead  I 

2.  No ;  but   the  voice  of  the  deep  as   it 

hollows  the  cliffs  of  the  land. 

1.  Is  there  a  voice  coming  ii|i  with  thfc 

voice  of  the  deep  from  tii;  strand, 
One  coming   up   with   a  song   in   the 
flush  of  the  glimmering  red  'i 

2.  Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming 

up  with  the  sun  from  the  sea. 
\.  Love  that  can  shajR  or  can  shatter  a 

life  till  the  life  shall  have  fled  ( 
2.  Nay,  let  us  welcome   him,  Love  that 

can  lift  up  a  life  fro     the  dead. 

1.  Keep  him  away  from  the  lone  little 

isle.     Let  us  be,  let  us  be. 

2.  Nay,  let  him  make  it  his  own,  let  him 

rciiin  in  it  —  lie,  it  is  he. 
Love  that  is  born  of  the  deep  coming 
up  with  the  sun  from  the  sea. 

Enter  Henry  and  Rosamund. 
Rosamund.     Be      friends     with      him 

again  —  I  do  beseech  thee. 
Henrt/.     With    Beeket  ?      I   have    but 
one  hour  with  thee  — 
Sceptre   and    crozier    clashing,  and    the 

mitre 
Grappling  the  crown  —  and  when  I  flee 

from  this 
For   a   gasp   of  freer  air,  a   breathing- 
while 
To  rest  upon  thy  bosom  and  forget  him  — 
Why  thou,  my  bird,  thou  pipest  Becket, 

Becket  — 
Yea,  thou    my  golden  dream   of   Love's 

own  bower. 
Must  be  the  nightmare  breaking  on  my 

peace 
With  "  Becket." 
Rosamniid.      O   my   life's   life,  not  to 
smile 
Is  all   but  death    to  me.     My  sun,  no 

cloud  ! 
Let  there  not  be  one  frown  in   this  one 

hour. 
Out  of  the  many  thine,  let  this  be  mine ! 
Look  rather  thou  all-royal  as  when  first 
I  met  thee. 

Henry.         Where  was  that  ? 
Rosamund.  Forgetting  that 

Forgets  me  too. 

Henry.  Nay,  I  remember  it  well 

There  on  the  moors. 


T26 


BECKET. 


Rosamund.  Aud  in  a  narrow  path. 

A    plover    flew    before    thee.      Then   I 

saw 
Thy  high  Wuck  steed  among  the  flaming 

furze, 
Like  sudden  night  in  the  main  ghire  of 

day. 
And  from  that  height  something  was  said 

to  me 
I  knew  not  what. 

Henry.     I  ask'd  the  way. 
Rosamund.  I  think  so. 

So  I  lost  mine. 

Henry.     Thou  wast  too  shamed  to  an- 
swer. 
Rosamund.     Too  scared  — so  young! 
Henry.         The  rosebud  of  my  rose  !  — 
Well,  well,  no  more  of  him  — I  have  sent 

his  folk, 
His  kin,  all  his  belongings,  overseas ; 
Age,  orphans,  and  babe-breasting  moth- 
ers —  all 
By   hundreds     to    him  —  there     to   beg, 

starve,  die  — 
So  that  the  fool  King  Louis  feed  them 

not. 
The  man  shall  feel  that  I  can  strike  him 
yet. 
Rosamund.    Babes,  oi'phans,  mothers! 

is  that  royal,  Sire  ? 
Henry.     And  I  have  been  as  royal  with 
the  Church. 
He  shelter'd  in  the  Alibey  of  Poniigny. 
There  wore  his  time  studying  the  canon 

law 
To  work  it  against  me.     But  since  he 

cursed 
My  friends  at  Veselay,  I  have  let  them 

know. 
That  if   they  keep  him   longer  as    their 

guest, 
I  scatter  all  their  cowls  to  all  the  hells. 
Rosamund.     And    is    that    altogether 

royal ? 
Henry.  Traitress! 

Rosamund.     A  faithful  traitress  to  thy 

royal  fame. 
Henry.     Fame  !  what  care  I  for  fame  ? 
Spite,  ignorance,  envy, 
Yea,  honesty  too,  paint   her  wiiat   way 

they  will. 
Fame  of  to-day  is  infamy  to-morrow ; 
Infamy  of  to-day  is  fame  to-morrow  ; 
And    round    and    round    again.     What 

matters  ?     Royal  — 
I  mean  to  leave  the  royalty  of  my  crown 
Unlessen'd  to  mine  heirs. 


Rosamund.  Still  —  thy  fame  too 

I  say  that  should  be  royal. 

Henry.  And  I  say, 

I  care  not  for  thy  saying. 

Rosamund.  And  I  say, 

I  care  not   for  thy  saying.    A  greatel 

King 
Than  thou  art,  Love,  who  cares  not  foi 

the  word. 
Makes  "  care  not "  —  care.     There  have  ] 
spoken  true  ? 
Henry.     Care  dwell  with   me  forever 
when  I  cease 
To  care  for  thee  as  ever ! 

Rosamund.     No  need  !  no  need!    .  .  . 
There  is  a  bench.     Come,  wilt  thou  sit  ? 

.  .  .  jVIy  bank 
Of  wild -flowers  [he  sits].     At  thy  feet ! 

[She  sits  at  his  feet. 
Henry.      ■  I  bade  them  clear 

A  royal  pleasaunce  for  ihee,  in  the  wood, 
Not  leave  these  countryfolk  at  court. 

Rosamund.  1  biought  them 

In  from  the  wood,  and  set  them  here.     I 

love  them 
More  than  the  garden  flowers,  that  seem 

at  most 
Sweet  guests,  or  foreign  cousins,  not  half 

speaking 
The  language  of  the  land.    I  love  them 

too. 
Yes.    But,  my  liege,  I  am  sure,  of  all 

the  roses  — 
Shame  fall  on  those  who  gave  it  a  dog's 

name  — 
This  wild  one  (picking  a  brier-rose) — nay, 

I  shall  not  prick  myself  — 
Is  sweetest.     Do  but  smell ! 

Henry.  Thou  rose  of  the  world  \ 

Thou  rose  of  all  the  r<  ses  !  [Muttering. 
I  am  not  worthy  of  her  —  this  beast-body 
That  God  has  plunged  my  soul  in  —  I, 

that  taking 
The  Fiend's  advantage  of  a  throne,  so 

long 
Have  wander'd  among  women, — -afoul 

stream 
Tiiro'  feven'-breeding  levels,  —  at  her  side 
Among  these  happy  dales,  run  clearer, 

drop 
The  mud  I  carried,  like  yon  brook,  and 

glass 
The  faithful  face  of  heaven  — 

[Looking  at  her,  and  unconsciously  aloud^ 

—  thine  !  thine  ! 
Rosamund.  I  know  it 

Heniy     (mut/ering).      Not    hers.      We 


BECKETo 


727 


have  but  one  bond,  her  hate  of 
Becket. 
Rosamund    (half-hearinq).     Nay!    nay! 
what  art  thou  muttering  ?     /  hate 
Becket? 
Henri/  (mutterin(]).    A  sane  and  natural 
ioathinj;  for  a  soul 
Purer,  and    truer  and    nobkr  than   her- 
self; 
And  mine  a  bitterer  illegitimate  hate, 
A  bastaid  hate  born  of  a  former  love. 
Rosamund.     My   fault  to   name    him  ! 
O  let  the  hand  of  one 
To  whom  thy  voice  is  all  her  music,  stay 

it 
But  for  a  breath. 

[Puis  her  hand  h/>fore  his  lips. 

Sjieak  only  of  thy  love. 

Why  there  —  like  some   loud  begjj^ar  at 

thy  gate  — 
The  happy  boldness  of   this   hand    hath 

won  it 
Love's  alms,  thy  kiss  (looking  at  her  hand) 
—  Sacred  !     1  '11  kiss  it  too. 

[Kissing  it. 
There !  wherefore  dost  thou  so  peruse  it  7 

Nay, 
There  may  be  crosses  in  my  line  of  life. 
Henri/.     Not  half  her  hand  —  no  hand 
to  mate  with  her. 
If  it  should  come  to  that. 

Rosamund.        With  her  ?  with  whom  ? 
Henry.     Life   on    the   hand    is   naked 
gipsy-stuff  ; 
Life  on  the  face,  the  brows  —  clear  inno- 
cence ! 
Vein'd  marble  —  not  a  furrow  yet  —  and 
hers  [Muttering. 

Crost  and  recrost,  a  venomous   spider's 
web  — 
Rosamund   {springing  up).     Out  of  the 
cloud,  my  Sun  — out  of  the  eclipse 
Narrowing  my  golden  hour ! 

Henri/.  0  Eosamund, 

I  would  be  true  —  would  tell  thee  all  — 

and  something 
I  had  to  say  —  I  love  thee  none  the  less  — 
Which  will  so  vex  thee. 

Rosamund.  Something  against  me  ? 

Henry.     No,  no,  against  myself. 
Rosamund.  I  will  not  hear  it. 

Come,  come,  mine  hour !     I  bargain  for 

mine  hour. 
I'll  call  thee  little  Geoffrey. 

Henry.  Call  him'. 

Rosamu7id.  Geoffrey ! 


Enter  Geoffrey. 

Henry.     How  the  boy  grows ! 
Rosamund.      Ay,   and   his    brows    are 
thine  ; 
The   mouth   is    only    Clifford,   my   dear 
father. 
Geoffrey.     My   liege,   what   hast    thou 

brought  me  ? 
Henry.  Venal  imp! 

What  say'st  thou  to  the  Chancellorship 
of  England  ? 
Geoffrey.     O  yes,  my  liege. 
Henry.    "O    yes,    my    liege!"      He 
speaks 
As  if  it  were  a  cake  of  gingerbread. 

Dost  thou  know,  my  boy,  what  it  is  to 
be  Chancellor  of  England  ? 

Geoffrey.  Something  good,  or  thou 
woulilst  not  give  it  me. 

Henry.  It  is,  my  hoy,  to  side  with  the 
King  when  Chancellor,  and  then  to  be 
made  Archbishop  and  go  against  the 
King  who  made  him,  and  turn  the  world 
upside  down. 

Gioffrey.  I  won't  have  it  then.  Nay, 
but  i:ive  it  me,  and  I  promise  thee  not  to 
turn  the  world  upside  down. 

Henry  (giving  him  n  hall).  Here  is  a 
ball,  niy  boy,  thy  world,  to  turn  any  way 
and  play  with  as  thou  wilt  —  which  is 
more  than  I  can  do  with  mine.  Go  try 
it,  play.  [Exit  Geoffrey. 

A  pretty  lusty  boy. 
Rosamund.  So  like  to  thee  ; 

Like  to  be  liker. 

Henry.  Not  in  my  chin,  I  hope! 

That  threatens  double. 

Rosamund.      Thou  art  manlike  perfect. 
Henry.     Ay,  ay,  no  doubt ;  and  were 
I  bumpt  behind. 
Thou  'dst  say  as  much  —  the  goodly  way 

of  women 
Who  love,  for  which  I  love  them.     May 

God  grant 
No  ill  befall  or  him  or  thee  when  I 
Am  gone. 

Rosamund.     Is  he  thv  enemy  1 

Henry.  '      He?  who?  ay! 

Rosamund.     Thine   enemy   knows   the 

secret  of  my  bower. 
Henry.     And  I  could  tear  him  asunder 
with  wild  horses 
Before    he    would    betray   it.     Nay  —  no 

fear ! 
More  like  is  he  to  excommunicate  me. 


728 


BECKET. 


Rosamund.     And  I  would  creep,  crawl 
over  knifeedf^e  flint 
Barefoot,  a  hundred  leagues,  to  stay  his 

hand 
Before  he  flash'd  the  bolt. 

Henvfi.  And  when  he  flash'd  it 

Shrink  from  me,  like  a  daughter  of  the 
Church. 
Rosamund.     Ay,  but  he  will  not. 
Henry.  Ay  !  but  if  he  did  ? 

Rosamund.    0  then  !  O  then  !  I  almost 
fear  to  say 
That  my   poor  heretic  heart  would  ex- 

coniiiiunicate 
His  exconiniuiiication,  clinging  to  thee 
Closer  than  ever. 

Henrji  (raising  Rosamund  and  kissing 
her).  My  brave-hearted  Rose  ! 

Hath  he  ever  been  to  see  thee  1 

Rosamund.  Here?  not  he. 

And  it  is  so  lonely  here  —  no  confessor. 
Henrg.      Thou   shalt    confess   all   thy 

sweet  sins  to  me. 
Rosamund.     Besides,  we  came  away  in 
such  a  heat, 
I  brought  not  ev'n  my  crucifix. 

Henrg.  Take  this. 

\^Giving  her  the  Crucifix  which  Elea- 
nor gave  him. 
Rosamund.     0  beautiful !     May  I  have 
it  as  mine,  till  mine 
Be  mine  again  1 

Henrg    (ihroicing    it    round  her   neclc). 
Thine  —  ns  I  am  —  till  death  ! 
Rosamund.     Death  ?  no !     I  '11  have  it 
with  me  in  my  shroud, 
And  wake  with  it,  and  show  it  to  all  the 
Saints. 
Henrg.     Nay  —  I  must  go  ;  but  when 
thou  layest  thy  lip 
To  this,  remembering  One  who  died  for 

thee, 
Remember  also  one  who  lives  for  thee 
Out  there  in   France;  for  I  must  hence 

to  brave 
The  Pope,  King  Louis,  and  this  turbulent 
priest. 
Rosa7nund   (fcneeling).     O  by   thy   love 
for  me,  all  mine  for  thee. 
Fling  not   thy   soul  into  the   flames   of 

hell; 
I  kneel   to   thee — be   friends   with    him 
again. 
Henry.     Look,  look  !  if  little  Geoffrey 
have  not  tost 
His  ball  into  the  brook !  makes  after  it 
too 


To  find  it.    "Why,  the  child  will  drown 
himself. 
Rosamund.     Geoffrey !  Geoffrey  ! 

[Exeunt 

Scene  II.  —  Montmirail.     "  The  Meeting 
of  the  Kings."    John  of  Oxford  ana 
Henry.     Crowd  in  the  distance. 
John  of  Oxford.   You  have  not  crown'd 

young  Henry  yet,  my  liege  ? 
Henrg.     Crown'd !    by  God's  eyes,  we 
will  not  have  him  crown'd. 
I  spoke  of  late  to  the  boy,  he  answer'd 

me. 
As  if  he  wore  the  crown  already  — No, 
We  will  not  have  him  crown'd. 
'T  is  true  what  Becket  told  me,  that  the 

mother 
Would    make    him    play    his    kingship 
against  mine. 
John  of  Oxford.   Not  have  him  crown'd  ? 
Henrg.  Not   now  —  not  yet !    and 

Becket  — 
Becket  should  crown  him  were  he  crown'd 

at  all : 
But,  since  we  would  be  lord  of  our  own 

manor. 
This  Canterbury,  like  a  wounded  deer, 
Has  fled  our  presence  and  our  feeding- 
grounds. 
John   of  Oxford.      Cannot    a    smooth 
tongue  lick  him  whole  again 
To  serve  your  will  ? 

Henry.  He  hates  my  will,  not  me. 

John  of  Oxford.     There's  York,   my 

liege. 
Henrg.    But  England  scarce  would  hold 
Young   Henry   king,  if  only  crown'd  by 

York, 
And  that  would  stilt  up  York  to  twice 

himself. 
There   is  a   movement    yonder    in    the 

crowd  — 
See  if  our  pious  —  what  shall  I  call  him, 

John  ?  — 
Husband-in-law,  our  smooth-shorn  SUZB" 

rain, 
Be  yet  within  the  field. 

John  of  Oxford.  I  will.         [Exit, 

Henry.  Ay!  Ay! 

Mince  and  go  back!  his  politic  Holiness 
Hath  all  but  climb'd  the    Roman   perch 

again. 
And  we   shall   hear   him   presently  with 

clapt  wing 
Crow  over  Barbarossa  —  at  last  tongue 
free 


BECKET. 


729 


To  blast  my  realms  with  excommunica- 
tion 

And  interdict.    I  must  patch  up  a  peace  — 

A  piece  in  this  long-tugged  at,  thread- 
bnre-worn 

Quarrel  of  Crown  and  Church  —  to  rend 
again. 

His  Holiness  cannot  steer  straight  thro' 
sliouls, 

Nor  I.  The  citizen's  heir  hath  conquer'd 
me 

For  the  moment.  So  we  make  our  peace 
with  him. 

Enter  Louis. 

Brother  of  France  what  shall   be   done 

with  Beckct  ? 
Louis.     The   holy  Tliomas !     Brother, 

you  have  traffick'd 
Between  the  I"]niperor  and  the  Pope,  be- 
tween 
The  Poj)e  and  Aniipopc  —  a  perilous  game 
For  men  to  play  with  God. 

Henry.  Ay,  ay,  good  brother, 

They  call  you  the  Moiik-King. 

Louis.  Who  calls  me  ?  she 

That   was   my   wife,  now   yours  ?     You 

have  her  Duchy, 
The  point  you  aim'd  at,  and  pray  God 

she  prove 
True  wife  to  you.     You  have  had   the 

better  of  us 
In  secular  matters. 

Henri/.       Come,  confess,  good  brother, 
You  did  your  best  or  worst  to  keep  her 

Duchy. 
Only  tlie  golden  Leopard  printed  in  it 
Such  hold-fast  claws   that  you  jterforce 

again 
Shrank  into  France.     Tut,  tut!  did   we 

convene 
This   coirference   but   to  babble   of   our 

wives  7 
They  are  plagues  enough  in-door. 

Louis.  We  fought  in  the  East, 

And  felt  the  sun  of  Antioch  scald  our 

mail. 
And    push'd    our   lances     into    Saracen 

hearts. 
We  never  hounded  on  the  State  at  home 
To  spoil  the  Church. 
Henri/.      How    should     you    see    this 

rightly  ? 
Louis.     Well,    well,  no   more !     I  am 

proud  of  my  "  Monk-King," 
Whoever  named  me  ;  and,  brother,  Holy 

Church 


May  rock,  but  will  not  wreck,  nor  our 
Archbishoj) 

Stagger  on  the  slope  decks  for  any  rough 
sea 

Blown  by  the  breath  of  kings.     We  do 
forgive  you 

For  aught  you  wrought  against  us. 

[Henry  holds  u/i  his  hand 
Nay,  I  pray  you, 

Do  not  defend    yourself.     You  will    do 
much 

To  rake  out  all  old  <lying  heats,  if  you, 

At  my  requestinjr,  will  but  look  into 

Tlie  wrongs  you  ditl  him,  and  restore  his 
kin, 

Reseat  him  on  his  throne  of  Canterbury, 

Be,  both,  the  friends  you  were. 

Henry.  The  friends  we  were! 

Co-mates  we  were,  and  had  our  sport  to- 
gether, 

Co-kings  we  were,  and  made  tiic  laws  to- 
gether. 

The  world  had  never  seen  the  like  before. 

You  are  too  cold  to  know  the  fashion  of  it. 

Well,  well,  we   will  be  gentle  with  him, 
gracious  — 

Most  gracious. 

Enter  Becket,  qP^r  him,  John  of  Ox- 
ford, Roger  of  York,  Gilbert 
FoLioT,  De  Broc,  Fitzurse,  etc. 

Only  that  the  rift  he  made 
May  close  between  us,  here  I  am  wholly 

king. 
The  word  should  come  from  him. 

Becket  ( kneelinr/ ) .     Then,  my  dear  liege^ 
I  here  deliver  all  this  controversy 
Into  your  royal  liands. 

Henry.  Ah,  Thomas,  Thomas, 

Thou  art  thyself  again,  Thomas  again. 

Becket  (rising).       Saving  God's  honor! 

Henry.  Out  upon  thee,  man ! 

Saving  the  Devil's  honor,  his  yes  and  eo. 

Knights,   bishops,     earls,     this     London 

spawn  —  by  Mahound, 
I  had  sooner  have  been  born  a  MussuU 

man  — 
Less  clashing  with  their  priests  — 
I  am  half-way  down  the  slope  —  will  no 

man  stay  me? 
I  dash  myself  to  pieces —  I  stay  myself  — 
Puff  —  it  is  gone.     You,  Master  IJecket, 

you 
That  owe  to  me  your  power  over  me  — 
Nay,  nay  — 
Brother  of  France,  you  have  taken,  cher- 

ish'd  him 


730 


BECKET. 


Who  thief-like  fled  from  his  own  church 

by  night, 
No  man   pursuing.     I  would    have  had 

him  back. 
Take  heed  lie  do  .not  turn  and  rend  you 

too : 
For   whatsoever   may    displease    him  — 

That 
Is  clean  against  God's  honor  —  a  shift,  a 

trick 
Whereby  to  challence,  face  tne  out  of  all 
My  regal  rights.     Yet,  yet  —  thai  none 

mny  dream 
I  go  against  God's  honor — ay,  or  hiin- 

.self 
In  any  reason,  choose 
A  hundred  of  the  wisest  he  kIs  from  Eng- 
land, 
A   hundred,   too,    from    Normandy   and 

Anjou  : 
Let  these  decide  on  what  was  customary 
In  olden   days,  and   all    the  Church  of 

France 
Decide  on  their  decision,  I  am  content. 
More,  what  the  miglitiest  and  tlie  holiest 
Of  all  his  predecessors  may  have  done 
Ev'n  to  the  least  and  meanest  of  my  own. 
Let  liim  do  liie  same  to  me  —  1  am  con- 
tent. 
Louis.     Ay,    ay !    the    King    humbles 

himself  enough. 
Becket  (aside).    Words !    he  will  wrig- 
gle out  of  them  like  an  eel 
When    the    time   serves.     (Aloud.)    My 

lieges  and  my  lords, 
The  thanks  of  Holy  Church  are  due  to 

those 
That    went   before    us    for    their   work, 

which  we 
Inheriting  reap  an  easier  harvest.     Yet  — 
Louis.     My  lord,   will  you  be  greater 

than  the  Saints, 
More  than  St.  Peter  ?  whom  —  what  is  it 

you  doubt  ? 
Behold  your  peace  at  hand. 

BecIcH.  I  say  that  those 

Who  went  before  us  did  not  wlioUy  clear 
The    deadly   growths     of    earth,    which 

Hell's  own  heat 
So  dwelt  on  that  they  ro.se  and  darken'd 

Heaven. 
Yet   they  <lid   much.     Would  God  they 

had  torn  uj)  all 
By  the  hard  root,  which  shoots  again  ; 

our  trial 
Had  so  been  less ;  but,  seeing  they  were 

jneo 


Defective  or  excessive,  must  we  follow 
All  that  they  overdid  or  underdid  1 
Nay^  if  they  were  defective  as  St.  Peter 
Denying   Christ,  who  yet  defied  the  tj 

rant. 
We  hold  by  his  defiance,  not  his  defect. 
()  good  son  Louis,  do  not  counsel  me, 
No,    to    suppress    God's    honor    for   the 

sake 
Of   any   king   that    breathes.     No,    Goc, 

forbid  ! 
Henry.     No !    God   foibid !    and    turr 

me  Mussulman  ! 
No  God  but  one,  and    Mahound  is  his 

prophet. 
But   for   your  Christian,  look  you,  you 

shall  have 
None  other  God  but  me  —  me,  Thomas, 

son 
Of  Gillierfc    Becket,   London    merchant. 

Out ! 
I  hear  no  more.  [  E.rit. 

Louis.      Our  brother's  anger  puts  him, 
Poor    man,    beside    himself  —  not    wise. 

My  lord. 
We   have    claspt   your    cause,   believing 

that  our  brother 
Had  wrong'd  you  ;  but  this  day  he  prof- 

fer'd  prace. 
You  will  have  war;  and  tho'  we  grant  the 

Church 
King  over  this  world's  kings,  yet,   my 

good  lord. 
We  that  are  kings  are  something  in  this 

world. 
And  so  we  pray  you,  draw  yourself  from 

under 
The  wings  of  France.     We  shelter  you 

no  more.  [Exit. 

John  of  Oxford.   I  am  glad  that  France 

hath  scouted  him  at  last : 
I  told  the  Pope  what  manner  of  man  he 

was.  [Exit. 

Roger  of  York.    Yea,  since  he  flouts  the 

will  of  either  realm, 
Let   either   cast   him    away  like   a  dead 

dog !  [Exit, 

Foliot.     Yea,  let  a  stranger  spoil  hig 

heritage, 
And  let  another  take  his  bishopric ! 

[Exit. 
De  Broc.     Our  castle,  my  lord,  belongs 

to  Canterbury. 
I  pray  you  come  and  take  it.  [Exit 

Fitzurse.  When  you  will.     [Exit 

Becket.     Cursed    be  John   of   Oxford, 

Koger  of  York, 


BECKET. 


731 


And  Gilbert   FoHot!    cursed    those    De 
Brocs 

That  hold  our  Saltwood  Castle  rrom  our 
see! 

Cursed    Fitzurse,   and   all    the    rest    of 
them 

That  sow  tliis  hate  between  my  lord  aad 
me ! 
Voices  from  the  Crowd.     Blessed  be  the 

Lord    Archbishop,    who    hath    withstood 

two  Kiugs  to  their  faces  for  the  honor 

of  God. 

Becket.     Out  of  the  mouths  of  babes 
and  siickliiifis,  praise ! 

I  thank  you,  sons ;  when  kings  but  hold 
bv  crowns, 

The  crowd  that  hungers  for  a  crown  in 
Heaven 

Is  my  true  king. 

Herbert.     Thy   true    King    bade    thee 
be 

A  fisher  of  men  ;  thou  hast  them  in  thy 
net. 
Becket.    I  am  too  like  the  King  here ; 
both  of  us 

Too  headloug  for  our  oftice.    Better  have 
been 

A  fisherman   at  Bosham,  my  good  Her- 
bert, 

Thy   birtlijilace  —  the    sea -creek  —  the 
petty  rill 

That  falls  into  it  —  the  green  field  —  the 
gray  cliiirch  — 

The     simjjle     lobster  -  basket,    and    the 
mesh  — 

The  more  or  less  of  daily  labor  done  — 

The   pretty  gaping    bills    in    the    home- 
nest 

Piping  for  bread  —  the  daily  want  sup- 
plied — 

The  daily  pleasure  to  supply  it. 
Herbert.  Ah,  Thomas, 

You  had  not  borne  it,  no,  not  for  a  day. 
Becket.     Well,  may  lie,  no. 
Herbert.       But  bear  with  Walter  Map, 

For  here  he  comes  to  comment  on  the 
time. 

Enter  Walter  Map. 

Walter  I\rap.  Pity,  my  lord,  that  you 
nave  quenched  the  warmth  of  France 
toward  you,  tho'  His  Holiness,  after 
much  smouldering  and  smoking,  be  kin- 
dled again  upon  your  quarter. 

Becket.  Ay,  if  he  do  not  end  in  smoke 
again. 

Walter  Map.     My  lord,  tho  fire,  when 


first  kindled,  said  to  the  smoke,  "  Go  up, 
mv  son,  straight  to  Heaven."  And  the 
sniuke  said,  "I  go  ;  "  but  anon  the  North- 
east took  and  turned  him  Suutlnvest 
then  the  Southwest  turned  him  North 
cast,  and  so  of  the  other  winds;  but  ii, 
was  in  him  to  lto  uj)  straight  if  the  time 
had  been  quieter.  Your  lordship  affc-cts 
the  unwavering  perpendicular  ;  but  His 
Holiness,  pushed  one  way  by  the  Empire 
and  another  by  England,  if  he  move  at 
all.  Heaven  stay  him,  is  fain  to  diag- 
onalize. 

Herbert.      Diagonalize !     thou    art    a 
word-monger ! 
Our  Thomas  never  will  diagonalize. 
Thou  art  a  jester  and  a  verse-maker. 
Diagoualize ! 

Walter  Map.  Is  the  world  any  the 
worse  for  my  verses  if  the  Latin  rhymes 
be  rolled  out  from  a  full  mouth  ?  or  any 
harm  done  to  the  people  if  my  jest  be  in 
defence  of  the  Truth  ? 

Beckit.  Ay,  if  the  jest  be  so  done  that 
the  people 
Delight  to  wallow  in  the  grossness  of  it. 
Till  Truth  herself  be  shamed  of  her  de- 
fender. 
Nan  defeiisoribiis  istis,  Walter  Map. 

Walter  Map.  Is  that  my  case  ■?  so  if 
the  city  be  sick,  and  I  cannot  call  the 
kennel  sweet,  your  lordship  would  sus- 
jiend  mc  from  verse-wiiting,  as  you  sus- 
pended yourself  after  sub-writing  to  the 
customs. 

Becket.  I  pray  God  pardon  mine  infir- 
mity ! 
Walter  Map.  Nay,  my  lord,  take  heart ; 
for  tho'  you  suspended  xounself,  the  Pope 
let  you  down  again  ;  and  tho'  you  sus- 
pend Foliot  or  another,  the  Pope  will  not 
leave  them  in  suspense,  for  the  Pope  him- 
self is  alw.ays  in  suspense,  like  Mahouud's 
coffin  hung  between  heaven  and  earth  — 
always  in  suspense,  like  the  scales,  till  the 
weight  of  Germany  or  the  gold  of  Eng- 
land brings  one  of  them  down  to  the  dust 
—  always  in  suspense,  like  the  tail  of  the 
horologe  —  to  and  fro  —  tick  -  tack  —  we 
make  the  time,  we  keep  the  time,  ay,  and 
we  serve  the  time;  for  I  have  heard  say 
that  if  you  boxed  the  Pope's  ears  with  a 
purse,  you  might  stagger  him,  but  he 
would  pocket  the  purse.  No  saying  of 
mine — Jocelyn  of  Salisbury.  But  the 
King  hath  bought  half  the  College  of 
Red-hats.     He  warmed  to  you  to-day,  and 


T32 


BECKET. 


you  have  chilled  him  again.  Yet  you  both 
love  God.  Agree  witli  Idrn  quickly  again, 
even  for  the  sake  of  tlie  Church.  My  one 
grain  of  good  counsel  which  you  will  uot 
swallow  I  hate  a  split  between  old  friend- 
ships as  I  hate  the  dirty  gap  in  the  face  of 
a  Cistercian  monk,  that  will  .swallow  any- 
thing. Farewell.  \Exit. 
Becket.  Map  scoffs  at  Rome.  I  all  but 
hold  with  Map. 
Save   for  myself  no  Rome  were  left   in 

England, 
All  had  been  his.    Why  should  this  Rome, 

tliis  Rome, 
Still   choose   Barabbas  r-ather   than    the 

Ciirist, 
Absolve  the  left-hand  thief  and  damn  the 

right  ? 
Take  fees  of  tyraun^/.  v/ink  at  sacrilege, 
Which  even  Peter  had  not  dared  7  con- 
demn 
The  blameless  exile  ?  — 

Uerhert.  Thee,  tliou  holy  Thomas! 

I  would  that  thou  hadst   been  the  Holy 

Father. 

Becket.  I  wculd  have  done  my  most  to 

keep  Rome  ho'y, 

I  would  have  made  Rome  know  she  still 

is  Rome--- 
Who  stands  agl;ast  at  her  eternal  self 
And  shakes  at  mortal  kings  —  her  vacil- 
lation, 
Avarice,  craft  —  O  God,  bow  many  an  in- 
nocent 
Has  left  his  bones  upon  the  way  to  Rome 
Unwept,   nncand   for.      Yea  —  on   mine 

own  self 
The  King  had  bad  no  power  except  for 

Rome. 
'T  is  not  the  King  who  is  guilty  of  mine 

exile, 
But  Rome,  Rome,  Rome ! 

Herbert.  My  lord,  I  see  this  Louis 

Returning,   ah !    to  di-ive   thee  from    his 
realm. 
Becket.  He  said  as  much  before.    Thou 
art  no  propliet, 
Nor  yet  a  ])rophet's  son. 

Herbert.  Whatever  he  say. 

Deny  not  thou  God's  honor  for  a  king. 
The  King  looks  troubled. 

Reenter  KiXG  Louis. 

Louis.  My   dear   lord  Archbishop, 

I  learn  but  now  that  those  poor  Poitevins, 
That  in  thy  cause  were  stirr'd  against 
King  Henry, 


Have  been,  despite   his   kingly  promise 

given 
To  our  own  self  of  pardon,  evilly  used 
And  put  to  pain.     1  have  lost  all  trust  in 

him. 
The  Cluirch  alone  hath  eyes  — and  now 

I  see 
That  I  was  blind  —  suffer  the  phrase  —^ 

surrendering 
God's  honor  to  the  pleasure  of  a  man. 
Forgive    me    and    absolve    me,   holy  far 

ther.  {Kneels, 

Becket.  Son,  I  absolve  thee  in  the  name 

of  God. 
Louis   (risinei).  Return  to  Sens,  where 

we  will  care  for  you. 
The  wine  and  wealth  of  all  our  France 

are  yours ; 
Rest  in  our  realm,  and  be  at  peace  with 

all.  \Exeunt. 

Voices  from  the  Croivd.  Long  live  the 
good  King  Louis!  God  bless  the  great 
Archbishop  I 

Reenter  Henrt  and  John   of  Oxford. 

Henry  (looking  after  King  Louis  and 

Becket).     Ay,  there  they  go  — 

both  backs  are  turned  to  me  — 
Why    then    I    strike    into    my    former 

paih 
For  England,  crown  young  Henry  there, 

and  make 
Our  waning  Eleanor  all  but  love  me ! 

John, 
Thou   hast  served    me    heretofore   with 

Rome  —  and  well. 
They  call  thee  John  the  Swearer. 

.John  of  Oxford.  For  this  reason. 

That,  l^eing  ever  duteous  to  the  King, 
I  evermore  have  sworn  upon  his  side, 
And  ever  mean  to  do  it. 

Henry  (claps  l.im  on  the  shoulder).    Hon 

est  John  I 
To     Rome     again  !     the    storm     begins 

again. 
Spare  not  thy  tongue  !  be  lavish  with  ouf 

coins. 
Threaten  our  junction  v/ith  the  Emperor 

—  flatter 
And  fright  the  Pope  -  bribe  all  the  Car- 
dinals —  leave 
Lateran   and   Vatican    in   one    dust    ol 

gold  — 
Swear  and   unswear,  state  and   misstate 

I  by  best ! 
I  go  to  have  young  Henry  crown'd   by 

York. 


BECKET. 


733 


ACT  m. 

Scene  I.  —  The  Bower. 
Henry  and  Kosamund. 
Henry.    All  that  you  say  is  just.    I  can- 
not answer  it 
Till    belter    times,    when    I    shall    j)ut 
away  — 
Bosuunnid.     What  will  you  put  away  ? 
Henri/.  That  which  you  Hsk  nie 

Till   better   times.     Let   it   content   you 

now 
There  is  no  woman  that  I  love  so  will. 
liosainiind.     No  woman  but  should  be 

content  with  that  — 
Henry.     And  one  fair  child  to  fondle  ! 
Rosamund.  O  yes,  tiie  child 

We  waited  for  so  long  —  Heaven's  gift  at 

last  — 
And   how  you  doated  on  him  then  !     To- 
day 
I  almost   fear'd  your  kiss  was  colder  — 

yes  — 
But  then  the  chihl  is  such  a  child.     What 

chance 
That  he  should  ever  spread  into  the  man 
Here  in  our  silence  t     I  have  done  my 

best. 
I  am  not  learn'd. 

Henry.  I  am  the  King,  his  father. 

And  I  will  look  to  it.    Is  our. secret  ours  1 
Have  you  had  any  alarm?  no  stranger  ? 

liosamund.  No. 

The  waider  of  the  bower  hath  given  him- 
self 
Of  late  to  wine.     I  sometimes  think  he 

sleeps 
When  he  should  watch  ;   and   yet  what 

fear?   the  people 
Believe   the    wood   enchanted.      No   one 

comes, 
Kor  foe  nor  friend  ;   his  fond  excess  of 

wine 
Springs  from  the  loneliness  of  my  poor 

bower, 
Which  weighs  even  on  me. 

Henry.  Yet  these  tree-towers, 

Their  long  bird-echoing  minster-aisles, — 

the  voice 
Of    the   perpetual    brook,   these   golden 

slopes 
Of  Solomon-shaming  flowers — that  was 

your  saying, 
All  pleased  you  so  at  first. 

Rosamund.  Not  now  so  much. 

My  Anjou  bower  was  scarce  as  beauti- 
ful 


But  you  were  oftener  there.    I  have  none 

but  you. 
The  brook's  voice  is  not  yours,  and  no 

flower,  not 
The  sun  himself,  should  he  be  changed  to 

one, 
Could   shine  away  the  darkness  of  that 

gap 
Left  by  the  lack  of  love. 
Henry.  '1  he   lack  of  love  1 

Rosamiuid.     Of  one  we   love.     Nay,  I 
would  not  be  bold, 
Yet  hoped  ere  this  you  might  — 

[Looks  earnestly  at  him. 
Henry.  Anything  furiher  ? 

Rosamund.    Only  my  best  bower-maiden 
died  of  late. 
And  that  old  priest  whom  John  of  Salis- 
bury trusted 
Hath  sent  another. 

Henry.  Secret  ? 

Rosamund.  I  but  ask'd  hei 

One     question,    and     she    pritnm'd    hei 

mouih  and  put 
Her  hands   together — thus  —  and   said, 

God  help  lier. 
That  she  was  sworn  to  silence. 

Heiirij.  What  did  you  nsk  her? 

Rosamund.    Some  daily  something-noth- 
ing. 
Henry.  Secret,  tlicn  ? 

Rosamund.     1  do  not  love  her.     Must 
vou  go,  my  liege. 
So  suddenly  1 

Henry.     I  came  to  England  suddenly, 
And  on  a  great  occasion  sure  to  wake 
As  great  a  wrath  in  Becket  — 

Rosamund.  Always  Becket f 

He  always  comes  between  us. 

Henry.  —  And    to  meet  it 

I  needs  mu.st   leave  as  suddenly.     It  is 

raining, 
Put   on   your  hood   and  see  me   to   the 
bounds.  [Exeunt. 

Margery  {sine/inej  behind  scene). 

Babble  in  bower 

Under  the  rose  '. 
Bee  must  n"t  buzz, 

Whoop  —  but  he  knows. 

Kiss  me,  little  one, 

Nobody  near  '. 
Grasshopper,  grasshopper, 

Whoop  —  you  can  bear. 

Kiss  in  the  bower, 

Tit  on  the  tree' 
Bird  must  n't  tell. 

Whoop  —  he  can  see. 


731 


BECKET. 


Enter  Margery. 

I  ha'  been  but  a  week  here  and  I  ha' 
seen  what  I  lia'  seen,  for  to  be  sure  it 's 
no  more  than  a  week  since  our  old  Fatlier 
Philip  that  has  confessed  our  niotlier  for 
twenty  years,  and  she  was  hard  put  to  it, 
and  to  speak  truth,  nij;h  at  the  end  of  our 
last  crust,  and  that  mouldy,  and  she  cried 
out  on  him  to  put  me  forth  in  tiie  world 
and  to  make  me  a  woman  of  the  world, 
and  to  win  my  own  bread,  whereupon  he 
asked  our  mother  if  I  corild  keep  a  quiet 
tongue  i'  my  head,  and  not  speak  till  I 
was  spoke  to,  and  I  answered  for  myself 
tiiat  I  never  spoke  more  than  was  needed, 
and  he  told  me  he  would  advance  me 
to  the  service  of  a  great  lady,  and  took 
me  ever  so  far  away,  and  gave  me  a  great 
pat  o'  the  cheek  for  a  pretty  weucli,  and 
said  it  was  a  pity  to  blindfold  such  eyes 
as  mine,  and  such  to  i>e  sure  they  be,  but 
he  blinded  'em  forall  that,  and  si^  brought 
me  no-hows  as  I  may  say,  and  the  more 
shame  to  him  after  his  promise,  into  a 
garden  and  not  into  the  world,  and  bade 
me  whatever  I  saw  not  to  sjjeak  one  word, 
an'  it  'ud  be  well  for  me  in  tlie  end,  for 
there  were  great  ones  who  would  look  af- 
ter me,  and  to  be  sure  I  ha'  seen  great 
ones  to-day  —  and  then  not  to  speak  one 
word,  for  tiiat  's  the  rule  o'  the  garden, 
tho'  to  be  sure  if  I  had  been  Eve  i'  the 
garden  I  should  n't  ha'  minded  the  apple, 
for  what 's  an  apple,  you  know,  save  to  a 
child,  and  I  'm  no  child,  but  more  a  wo- 
man o'  the  world  than  my  lady  here,  and 
I  ha'  seen  what  I  ha'  seen  —  tho'  to  be 
sure  if  I  had  n't  minded  it  we  should  all 
on  us  ha'  had  to  go,  bless  the  Saints,  wi' 
bare  backs,  but  the  hacks  'ud  ha'  counte- 
nanced one  anothei-,  and  belike  it  'ud  ha' 
been  always  summer,  and  anyhow  I  am  as 
well  -  shaped  as  my  lady  here,  and  I  ha' 
seen  what  I  ha'  seen,  and  what 's  the  good 
of  my  talking  to  myself,  for  here  comes 
my  lady  {Enter  Rosamund),  and,  my 
lady,  tho'  I  sliould  n't  speak  one  word,  I 
wish  you  joy  o'  the  King's  brother. 

Tio^amund.     What  is  it  you  mean  ? 

Margery,  I  mean  your  goodman,  your 
husband,  my  lady,  for  I  saw  your  ladysliip 
a-parting  wi'  him  even  now  i'  the  cop])ice, 
when  I  was  agetting  o'  bluebells  for  your 
ladyship's  nose  to  smell  on  —  and  I  ha' 
seen  the  King  once  at  Oxford,  and  he  's 
3S  like  the  King  as  finger-nail   to  finger- 


nail, and  I  thought  at  first  it  was  the 
King,  only  you  know  the  King  's  married, 
for  King  Louis  — 

Rosamund.     Married  ! 

Margery.  Y  ears  and  years,  my  lady,  for 
her  husband,  Iving  Louis  — 

Rosai  nind.     Hush  ! 

Margery.  —  And  I  thought  if  it  were 
the  King's  brother  he  had  a  better  bride 
than  the  King,  for  the  people  do  say  that 
his  is  bad  beyond  all  reckoning,  and  — 

Rosaiinnid.     The  people  lie. 

Marfiery.  Very  like,  my  lady,  but  most 
on  'em  know  an  honest  woman  and  a  lady 
when  they  see  her,  and  besides  they  say, 
siie  makes  songs,  and  that 's  against  her, 
for  I  never  knew  an  honest  woman  that 
could  make  songs,  tho'  to  be  sure  our 
mother 'ill  sing  me  old  songs  by  the  hour, 
hut  then,  God  help  her,  she  had  'em  from 
her  mother,  and  her  mother  from  her 
mother  back  and  back  for  ever  so  long, 
but  none  on  'em  ever  made  songs,  and 
they  were  all  honest. 

Rosamund.  Go,  you  shall  tell  me  of  her 
some  other  time. 

Margery.  There  's  none  so  much  to  tell 
on  her,  my  lady,  only  she  kept  the  seventh 
commandment  better  than  some  I  know 
on,  or  I  could  n't  look  your  ladyship  i'  the 
face,  and  siic  brew'd  the  best  ale  in  all 
(ilo'ster,  that  is  to  say  in  her  time  when 
she  had  the  "  Oown." 

Rosamund.     The  crown!  who? 

Margery.     Mother. 

Rosamund.      I    mean   her   whom    you 
call  —  fancy  —  my    husband's    brother's 
wife. 

Margery.  Oh,  Queen  Eleanor.  Yes,  my 
lady  ;  and  tho'  I  be  sworn  not  to  speak  a 
word,  I  can  tell  you  all  about  her,  if  — 

Rosamund.  No  word  now.  I  am  faint 
and  sleepy.  Leave  me.  Nay  —  go. 
What !  will  you  anger  me  ? 

[Exit  Margery. 
He   charged   me  not  to  question  anj'  of 

those 
About  me.     Have  I  ?  no  !  she  question'dl 

n;e. 
Did   she  not  slander   him  ?     Should  she 

stay  here  ? 
May   she   not   tempt    me,   being   at   my 

side, 
To  question  her'i     Nay,  can  I  send  her 

hence 
Without  his  kingly  leave  !     I  am  in  the 
dark. 


BECKET. 


735 


I  have  lived,  poor  bird,  from  cage  to  cage, 

aud  kuowii 
Nothing    but  liiin  —  happy  to    kuow  no 

more, 
So  that  lie  loved  me  — and   he  loves  me 

—  vos, 
And  btiund  me  by  his  love  to  secrecy 
Till  his  own  time. 

Eleanor,   Eleanor,  have  1 
Not  iR'ard  ill  things  of  her  iu  France? 

Oh,  she  's 
The  Queen  of  France.     I  see  it  —  some 

confusion, 
Some  strange  mistake.     I  did  not  hear 

aright, 
Myself  confused   with  parting  from  the 

King. 
Margery  (fieliind  scene). 

Bee  must  n't  buzz, 
\Vhoop  —  but  he  knows. 

Rosamund.    Yet   her  —  what  her  1    he 
hinted  of  some  her  — 
When  he  was  here  before  — 
Something    that    would    displease    me. 

llaih  he  strav'd 
From  love's  clear  path  ipto  the  common 

bush, 
And,  being  scratcli'd,  returns  to  his  true 

rose. 
Who  hath  not  thorn  euou-h  to  prick  him 

for  it, 
Ev'n  with  a  word  1 

Maryery  (behind  scene). 
Bird  must  n't  tell, 
Whoop  —  he  can  see. 

Rosamund.    I  would  not  hear  him.    Nay 
—  there's  more—  he  frowned 
"No  mate  for  her,  if  it   should  come  to 

that "  — 
To  that  —  to  what  1 

Margery  (behind  scene). 

Whoop  —  but  he  knows, 
Whoop  —  but  he  knows. 

Rosamund.     O     God!     some    dreadful 
truth  is  breaking  on  me  — 
Some  dreadful  thing  is  coming  on  me. 
Enter  Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey ! 
Geoffrey.     What   are   you   crying   for, 
when  the  sun  shines  ?  ,    ,      ,  r. 

Rosamund.  Hath  not  thy  father  left  us 
to  ourselves  ?  . 

Geoff-jey.  Av,  but  he  's  taken  the  ram 
with  him.  I  hear  Margerv  :  I'll  go  play 
with  her.  iExit  Geoffrey, 


Rosamund. 

Rainbow,  stay, 
Gleam  upon  gloom. 
Bright  as  my  dream, 
Rainbow,  stay  '. 
But  it  passes  away, 
Gloom  upon  gleam, 
Dark  as  my  doom  — 
0  rainbow,  stay. 

Scene    II.  —  Outside  the    Woods  nea^ 
Rosamund's   Bower. 

Eleanor.     Fitzurse. 

Eleanor.     Up  from  the  salt  lips  of  the 
land  we  two 
Have  track'd  the  King  to  this  dark  inland 

wood ; 
And  somewhere  hereabouts  he  vanish  d. 

Here 
His  turtle  build-i :  his  exit  is  our  adit : 
Watch  !  he  will  out  ttgain,  and  presently, 
Seeing     he   must    to    Westminster    and 

crown 
Young  Henry  there  to-morrow. 

Fitzurse.  ^^'e  have  watch  d 

So  long  in  vain,  he  hath  pass'd  out  again, 
And  on  the  other  side. 

[1  qrtat  horn  winded. 

Hark  !   Madam ! 

Eleanor.  .      ,     ^,A.\' 

How  ghostlv  sounds  that  horn  in  the  black 

wood!  M  Gountryman flying. 

Whither  away,  mau?  what  are  you  flying 

from  ?  ,         .    1  , 

Countryman.     The    witch!   the   witch! 

she  sits  naked  bv  a  great  heap  of  gold  in 

the  middle  of  the  wood,  and  when  the  horn 

sounds  she  comes  out  as  a  wolf.     Get  yoii 

hence  I  a  man  passed  in  there  to-day  :  I 

holla'd  to  him,  but  he  did  n't  hear  me; 

he  '11  never  out  again,  the  witch  has  got 

him.     I  dare  n't  stay  —  I  dare  n't  stay  ! 

Eleanor.    Kind  of  the  witch  to  give  thee 

warning  tho'.  l^l-^""  /?.'«f- 

Is  not    this   wood-witch   of    the   rustics 

fear  •    ,  ,,    i. 

Our  woodland  Circe  that  hath  witth  d  the 
King  ? 

[Horn  sounded.     Another  flying. 
Fitzurse.   Again  !  stay,  fool,  and  tell  me 

why  thou  fliest. 
Country  wan.  Fly  thou  too.  The  King 
keeps  his  forest  head  of  game  here,  and 
when  that  horn  sounds,  a  score  of  wolf- 
dogs  are  let  loose  that  will  tear  thee 
piecpmeal.  Linger  .not  till  the  third 
horn.     Fly!  l^^'^ 


736 


BECKET. 


Eleanor.    This  is  the  likelier  tale.    We 
have  hit  the  ])lace. 
Now  let  the  King's  hue  game  look  to  it- 
self. [Horn. 
Fitzurse.    Again  !  — 
Aud  far  on  in  the  daric  heart  of  iho  wood 
I  hear  the  yelping  of  the  hounds  of  hdl. 
Eleanor.     I  have  my  dagge*'  here  to  still 

their  throats. 
Fitzurse.     Nay,  Madam,  uot  to-night  — 
the  niglit  is  fulling. 
What  can  be  done  to-night  ? 
Eleanor.  Well  —  well  —  away. 

SCENK  III.  —  Traitor's  Meadow  at  Freie- 
val.  Pavilions  and  tents  of  the  Enylish 
and  French  Baronage. 

Becket  and  Hekbert  of  Bosuam. 

Becket.     See  lure ! 
Herbert.         What's  here? 
Becket.  A  notice  from  the  priest, 

To  whom  our  John  of   Salisbury  com- 
mitted 
The  secret  of  the  bower,  that  our  wolf- 
Queen 
Is  prowling  round  the  fold.     I  should  be 

back 
In  England  ev'n  for  this. 

Herbert.  These  are  by-things 

In  the  great  cause. 

Becket.  The  by-things  of  the  Lord 

Are  the  wrong'd  innocences  that  will  cry 
From  ail  tiic  hidden  by-ways  of  the  world 
In  the  great  day  against  the  wronger.     I 

know 
Thy  meaning.      Perish  she,  I,  all,  before 
The  Church  should  sutler  wrong ! 

Herbert.  Do  you  sec,  my  lord. 

There  is  the   King   talking  with  Walter 
Map  ? 
Becket.    He  hath  the  Pope's  last  letters, 
and  they  threaten 
The  immediate  tliunderidast  of  interdict  : 
Yet  he  can  scarce  ho  touchinii-  >ipon  tho.se, 
Or  scarce  would  smile  that  fashion. 

Herbert.  Winter  sunshine ! 

Beware  of  opening  out  thy  bosom  to  it, 
Lest  thou,  myself,  and  all  "thy  flock  should 

catch 
An  after  ague-fit  of  trembling.     Look  ! 
He  bows,  he  bares  Jiis  he^td,  he  is  coming 

hither, 
Still  with  a  smile. 
Enter  King'Henrt  and  Walter  Map. 

Henry.     We  have  had  so  many  hours 
together,  Thomas, 


So  many  happy  hours  alone  together. 
That  I  would  speak  with  you  once  more 
alone. 

Becket.     My  liege,  your  will  and  happi- 
ness are  mine. 

yExeunt  King  and  Becket. 

Herbert.     The  same  smile  still. 

Walter  Map.  Do  you  see  that  great 
black  cloud  that  hath  come  over  the  sun 
and  cast  us  all  into  shadow  ? 

Herbert.    And  feel  it  too. 

Walter  Map.  And  see  you  yon  side- 
beam  that  is  forced  from  under  it,  and 
sets  the  church -tower  over  there  all 
a-hell-(ire,  as  it  were  ? 

Hi-rhtrt.    Ay. 

Walter  Map.  It  is  this  black,  bell-si- 
lencing, anti  -  marrying,  burial  -  hindering 
interdict  that  hath  squeezed  out  this  side- 
smile  u]ion  ,  Canterbury,  whereof  may 
come  conflagration.  Were  I  Thomas,  I 
would  n't  trust  it.  Sudden  change  is  a 
house  ou  .'-and ;  and  tho'  I  count  Henry 
honest  enough,  yet  when  fear  creeps  in  at 
the  front,  honesty  steals  out  at  the  back 
and  the  King  at  last  is  fairly  scared  hi, 
this  cloud  —  this  interdict.  I  have  been 
more  for  the  King  than  the  Church  in  this 
matter  —  yea,  even  for  the  sake  of  the 
Church  :  lor,  truly,  as  the  case  stood,  you 
had  safelier  have  slain  an  archbishop  than 
a  she  -  goat :  but  our  recoverer  and  up- 
holder of  customs  hath  in  this  crowning 
of  young  Henry  by  York  and  London  so 
violated  the  immemorial  usage  of  the 
Church,  th.it,  like  the  grave-digger's  child 
I  have  he:nd  of,  trying  to  ring  the  bell,  he 
hath  half -hanged  liimself  in  the  rope  of 
the  Church,  or  rather  pulled  all  the 
Church  with  the  Holy  Father  astride  of 
it  down  upon  his  own  head. 

Herbert.     Were  yon  there  ? 

W<dtfr  Map.  In  the  church  rope  1  —  no. 
I  was  at  the  crowning,  for  I  have  jileasure 
in  the  pleasure  of  crowds,  and  to  read  the 
faces  of  men  at  a  izrcat  show. 

Herbert.  And  how  did  Roger  of  York 
comport  himself  ? 

Walter  ^fap.  As  magnificently  and  ar 
chiepisco)>ally  as  our  Thomas  would  have 
done  :  only  there  was  a  dare-devil  in  his 
eye  —  I  should  say  a  dare-Becket.  He 
thought  less  of  two  kings  than  of  one 
Roger,  the  king  of  the  occasion.  Foliot  is 
the  holier  man,  jterhaps  the  better.  Once 
or  twice  there  ran  a  twitch  acrosif  his  face, 
as  who  should  say  what 's  to  follow  1  but 


BECKET. 


787 


Salisbury  was  a  calf  cowed  by  Mother 
Chuicli,  and  every  now  and  theu  glauciug 
about  liiiii  like  a  thief  at  night  when  he 
hears  a  door  open  iu  the  house  and  thinks 
"  the  master." 

Herbert.     And  tlie  father-kiug  ? 

WnlUr  Mu/i.  The  f.ither's  eye  was  so 
:,ender  it  would  havt-  called  a  goose  ott'the 
green,  ami  onee  he  strove  tu  hide  his  face, 
like  the  (ireek  king  when  his  daughter 
was  sacrificed,  hut  he  thought  better  of 
it:  it  was  but  the  saerilice  of  a  kingdom 
to  his  son,  a  smaller  m;iiter;  hut  as  lo  the 
vouug  crowuliiig  hinisrlf,  lie  looked  so 
inala])ert  in  the  eyes,  liiat  had  1  fathered 
him  I  had  given  him  more  of  the  rod 
than  the  sceptre.  Then  followed  the 
thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting, 
and  so  we  cauie  on  to  the  banquet,  from 
whence  there  ))uH'ed  out  such  an  iuceuse 
of  unctuosity  into  the  nostrils  of  our  Gods 
of  Cliurch  antl  State,  that  Lucullus  or 
Apicins  might  have  sniffed  it  iu  their  Ha- 
des of  heathenism,  so  that  the  smell  of 
their  own  roa.st  had  not  come  across  it  — 

Ilcrber!.  Map,  iho'  you  make  youi'  butt 
too  big,  you  overshoot  it. 

Walter  Map.  —  For  as  to  the  fish,  they 
de-niiraeled  the  miraculous  draught,  and 
might  have  sunk  a  navy  — 

llerhcrt.  There  again,  Goliazing  and 
Goliathizing ! 

WdJttr  .]f(ip.  —  And  as  for  the  flesh  at 
table,  a  whole  Peter's  sheet,  with  all  man- 
ner of  game,  and  four-footed  things,  and 
fowls  — 

Herbert.  And  all  manner  of  creeping 
things  too  ? 

Wollrr  Map.  — Well,  there  were  Ab- 
bots—  l)nt  they  did  not  bring  their  wo- 
men ;  and  so  we  were  dull  enough  at  first, 
but  in  the  end  wc  flourished  out  into  a 
merriment  ;  for  the  old  King  would  act 
servitor  and  hand  a  dish  to  his  son  ; 
whereupon  my  Lord  of  York  —  his  fine- 
cut  face  bowinir  and  beaming  with  all 
that  courtesy  which  hath  less  loyalty  in  it 
than  the  backward  scrape  of  the  clown's 
heel  —  "  great  honor,"  says  he,  "from  the 
King's  self  to  the  King's  son.'"  Did  you 
hear  the  youni,^  King's  quip  ? 

Herbert.     No,  what  was  it  ? 

Walter  Map.  Glancing  at  the  days 
when  his  father  was  only  Earl  of  Anjou, 
he  answered  :  "  Should  not  an  earl's  son 
wait  on  a  king's  son  ?  "  And  when  the 
col<t  corners  of  the  King's  mouth  began 

47 


to  thaw,  there  was  a  great  motion  of 
laughter  among  us,  part  real,  part  child- 
like, to  be  freed  from  the  dulucss — part 
royal,  for  King  and  kingliug  both  laughed, 
and  so  we  could  not  but  laugh,  as  by  a 
royal  necessity  —  part  childlike  again  — 
when  we  felt  we  had  laughed  too  long 
and  could  not  stay  ourselves  —  many 
midriff -shaken  even  to  tears,  as  springs, 
gush  out  after  earthquakes  —  but  from 
those,  as  I  said  before,  there  may  come  a 
conflagration — tho',  to  keep  the  figure 
moist  and  make  it  hold  waier,  I  should 
say  rather,  the  lachrymaliou  of  a  lamenta- 
tion ;  but  look  if  Thomas  have  not  flung 
himself  at  the  King's  feet.  They  have 
maile  it  up  again  —  for  the  moment. 

Herbert.    Thanks  to  the  blessed  Magda- 
len, whose  day  it  is. 

Reenter  Henry  and  Becket.  (During 
their  conference  the  Barons  and  Bish- 
ops of  France  and  England  come  in 
at  back  of  stage.) 

Becket.    Ay,  King !  for  in  thy  kingdom, 
as  thou  knowest. 
The  spouse  of  the  Great  King,  thy  King; 

hath  fallen  — 
The  daughter  of    Zion   lies   beside   the 

way  — 
The  priests  of  Baal  tread  her  underfoot  — 
The  golden  ornaments  are  stolen    from 
her  — 
Henry.    Have  I  not  promised  to  restore 
her,  Thomas, 
And   send    thee    back   again   to   Canter- 
bury ? 
Becket.  'Send  back  again  those  exiles  of 
my  kin 
Who   wander   famine  -  wasted    thro'   the 
world . 
Henry.     Have  I  not  promised,  man,  to 

send  them  back  ? 
Becket.     Yet   one  thing  more.      Thou 
hast  broken  thro'  the  jiales 
Of  privilege,  crowning  thv  young  son  by 

York, 
London,    and    Salisbury  —  not     Canter- 
bury. 
Henry.    York  crown'd  the  Cou([iieror  — 

not  Canterbury. 
Becket.     There  was  no  Canterbury  in 

William's  time. 
Henry.      But     Hereford,     you     know, 

crown'd  the  first  Henry. 
Becket.       But    Anselm    crown'd    this 
Henry  o'er  again. 


738 


BECKET. 


Henry.   And  thou  shalt  crown  my  Heury 

o'er  again. 
Becket.    Aud  is  it  theu  with  thy  good- 
will that  I 
Proceed  against  thine  evil  councillors, 
And  hurl  the  dread  ban  of  the  Cliuich  on 

those 
Who  made  the  second  mitre  play  the  first, 
And  acted  me  ? 
Hemy.     Well,   well,  then  — have  thy 
way  ! 
It  may  be  they  were  evil  councillors. 
What  more,  my  lord  Archbishop  ?    What 

more,  Thomas  ? 
I  make  thee  full  amends.    Say  all  thy  say, 
But  blaze  not  out  before  the  Frenclimen 
here. 
Beckft.    More  ?     Nothing,  so  thy  prom- 
ise bi'  thy  deed. 
Henry   {/loldtny  out    his  hand).        Give 
me  thy  hand.   My  Lords  of  France 
and  England, 
My  friend  of  Canterbury  and  myself 
Are  now  once  more  at  jjerfecr  atnitv. 
Unkiugly    sliould    I    be,   and   most    uu- 

knightly, 
Not  striving  still,  however  much  in  vain. 
To  rival  him  in  Christian  cliarity. 

Herbert.     All    praise    tu  Heaven,    and 

sweet  St.  Magdalen  ! 
Henry.     And  so  farewell  until  we  meet 

in  England. 
Becket.     I  fear,  my  liege,  we  may  not 

meet  in  England. 
Henry.     How,  do  you  make  me  a  trai- 
tor 1 
Becket.  No,  indeed  ! 

That  be  far  from  tiiee. 

Henry.  Come,  stay  with  us,  then. 

Before  you  ])art  for  England. 

Becket.  I  am  bound 

For  that  one  hour  to  stay  with  good  King 

Louis, 
Who  helpt  me  when  none  else. 

Hrrbert.  He  said  thy  life 

Was  not  one  hour's  worth  in  England 

save 
King  Henry  gave  thee  first  the  kiss  of 
peace. 
Henry.     He  said  so  ?     Louis,  did  he  ? 
look  you,  Herbert. 
When  I  was  in  mine  auger  with  King 

Louis, 
I  sware   I   would   not  give    the    kiss  of 

peace. 
Not  on  French  ground,  nor  any  ground 
but  English, 


Where  hts  cathedral  stands.     Mine  old 

friend,  Thomas, 
I  would  there  were  that  perfect  trust  be- 
tween us, 
That  health  of  heart,  once  ours,  ere  Pope 

or  King 
Had  come   between   us!     Even  now-= 

who  knows  ?  — 
I  might  deliver  all  things  to  thy  hand  — > 
If  .  .  .  but  I  say  no  more  .  .  .  farewell, 

my  lord. 
Becket.     Farewell,  my  liege! 

[Exit    Henry,  (hen    the   Barons 

and  B' SHOPS. 

Walter  Map.     There  again  !  when  the 

full  fruit  of  the  royal  promise  might  have 

dropt    into    thy   mouth    hadst    thou    but 

opened    it  to  thank  him. 

Becket.     He  fenced  his  royal  promise 

with  an  if. 
W(dter  Ma]>.     And  is  the  King's  if  too 
high  a  stile   for  your  lordship  to  over- 
stej)  and  come  at  all  things  in  the  next 
held  ? 

Becket.     Av,    if    this    if  be    like    the 

Devil's  ")/ 
Thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me." 

Htrhert.  Oh,  Thomas, 

I  could  fall  down  and  worship  thee,  my 

Thomas, 
For  thou   hast   trodden  this  wine -press 

alone 
Becket.     Nay,  of  the  people  there  are 

many  with  me. 
Walter  Map.  I  am  not  altogether 
with  you,  mv  lord,  tho'  I  am  none  of 
those  that  would  raise  a  storm  between 
you,  lest  ve  should  draw  together  like 
two  ships  in  a  calm.  You  wrong  the 
King:  he  meant  what  he  said  to-day. 
Who  shall  vouch  for  his  to-morrows? 
One  word  further.  Doth  not  the,  fewness 
of  an V  thing  make  the  fulness  of  it  in  es- 
timation ?  Is  not  virtue  prized  mainly 
for  its  rarity,  and  great  baseness  lonthei 
as  an  exception  :  for  were  all,  my  lord; 
as  noble  as  yourself,  wh.o  would  look  up 
to  yon  ■?  and  wore  all  as  base  as  —  who 
shall  I  say  —  Fitzurse  and  his  following 
—  who  would  look  down  upon  them'' 
My  lora,  you  have  put  so  many  of  the 
King's  household  out  of  communion,  that 
they  begin  to  smile  at  it. 

Becket.     At  their  peril,  at  their  peril  — 

Walter    Map.      -—For   tho'    the    drop 

may  hollow  out  the  dead  stone,  doth  not 

the  living  skin  thicken  against  perpetual 


BECKET. 


739 


whippings  ?  This  is  the  second  grain  of 
good  counsel  I  ever  prort'tred  thee,  and  so 
cannot  suffer  by  the  rule  of  frequency. 
Have  I  sown  it  in  salt  ?  I  trust  not,  for 
before  God  I  promise  you  the  King  hath 
many  more  wolves  than  he  can  tame  in 
his  woods  of  England,  and  if  it  suit  their 
purpose  to  howl  tor  the  King,  and  you 
still  move  against  him,  yuu  may  have  no 
less  than  to  die  for  it ;  but  God  and  his 
free  wind  grant  your  lordship  a  happy 
home-return  and  the  King's  kiss  of  peace 
in  Kent.  Farewell !  I  must  follow  the 
King.  [  Exit. 

Herbert.     Ay,  and  I  warrant  the  cus- 
toms.    Did  the  King 
Speak  of  the  customs  ? 

Beckfit.  No  !  — to  die  for  it  — 

I  live  to  die  for  if,  I  die  to  live  for  it. 
The  State  will  die,  the  Church  can  never 

die. 
The  King  's  not  like  to  die  for  that  which 

dies; 
But  T  must  die  for  ihat  which  never  dies. 
It  will  be  so  —  my  visions  in  the  Lord  : 
It  must  be  so,  my  friend  !  the  wolves  of 

England 
Must  murder  her  one  shepherd,  that  the 

sheep 
May  feed  in   jicace.     False  figure,  Map 

would  say. 
Earth's  falses  are  heaven's  truths.     And 

when  my  voice 
Is  martyr'd  mute,  and  this  man  disap- 
pears, 
That  perfect  trust  may  come  again  be- 
tween us, 
And  there,  there,  there,  not  here,  I  shall 

rejoice 
To  find  mv  strav  sheep  back  within  the 

fold! 

The  crowd  are  .scattering,   let  us  move 

away  ! 
And  thence  to  England.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 
Scene  I.  —  The  Outskirts  of  the  Bower, 

Gvoffrey  (coming  out  of  the  icood).  Light 
again  !  light  again !  Margery  I  no,  that 's 
a  finer  thing  there.     How  it  glitters  ! 

Eleanor  [entering).  Come  to  me,  little 
one.     How  camest  thou  hither  ? 

Geoffrey.     On  my  legs. 

Eleanor.     And  mighty  pretty  legs,  too. 


Thou  art  the  prettiest  child  I  ever  saw. 
Wilt  thou  love  me  if 

Geoffrey.     No;  I  only  love  mother. 

Eleanor.     Ay  ;  and  who  is  thy  mother  1 

Geoffrey.  They  call  her —  But  she 
lives  secret,  you  see. 

Eleanor.     Why  ? 

Geoffrey.     Don't  know  wliy. 

Eleanor.  Ay,  but  some  one  comes  to' 
see  her  now  au(l  then.     Who  is  lie  ? 

Geoffrey.     Can't  tell. 

Eleanor.     What  does  she  call  him? 

Geoffrey.     My  liege. 

Eleanor.   Pretty  one,  how  t-amest  thou? 

Geoffrey.  There  was  a  bit  of  yellow 
silk  here  and  there,  and  it  looked  pretty 
like  a  glowworm,  and  I  thought  if  I  fol- 
lowed it  1  ihoiild  find  the  fairies. 

Eleanor.  I  am  the  fairy,  pretty  one, 
a  good  fairy  to  thy  mother.  Take  me  to 
her. 

Geoffrey.  There  are  good  fairies  and 
bad  fairies,  and  sometimes  she  cries,  and 
can't  sleep  sound  o'  nights,  because  of  the 
bad  fairies. 

Eleanor.  Siie  shall  cry  no  more ;  she 
shall  sleep  sound  enough  if  thou  wilt 
take  me  to  her.     I  am  her  good  fairy. 

Geoffrey.  But  you  don't  look  like  a 
good  fairy.  Mother  does.  You  are  not 
pretty,  like  mother. 

Eleanor.  We  can't  all  of  us  be  as 
pretty  as  thou  art—  (a  ide)  little  bastard. 
Come,  here  is  a  golden  chain  I  will  give 
thee  if  thou  wilt  lead  me  to  thy  mother. 

Geoffrey.  No  —  no  irold.  Mother  says 
gold  spoils  all.     Love  is  the  <^nly  gold.  " 

Eleanor.  I  love  thy  mothc  r,  my  pretty 
boy.  Show  me  where  thou  camest  out  of 
the  wood. 

Geoffrey.  By  this  tree  ;  but  I  don't 
know  if  I  can  find  the  way  back  again. 

Eleanor.     Where's  the  warder? 

Geoffrey.  Very  bad.  Somebody  struck 
him. 

Eleanor.     Ay  ?  who  was  thr/,  ? 

Geoffrey.  Can't  tell.  But  I  heard  say 
he  had  had  a  stroke,  or  you  'd  have  heard 
his  horn  before  now.  Come  along,  then  ; 
we  shall  see  the  silk  here  and  there,  and 
I  want  my  supper.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — HosxMv^xy's  Boicer. 

Rosamund.    The  boy  so  late  ;  pray  God, 
he  be  not  lost. 
I  sent  this  Margery,  and  she  comes  not 
back : 


740 


BECKET. 


I  sent  another,  and  she  comes  not  back  ; 

I  go  myseK  —  so  many  alleys,  crossings, 
Paths,  avenues  — nay,  if  I  lost  him,  now 
The  folds  have  fallen  from  ihe  mystery. 
And  left  all  naked,  I  were  lost  indeed. 

Enter  Geoffrey  and  Eleanor. 

Geoffrey,  the  pain  thou  hast  put  me  to! 
[^Seeing  Eleanor. 
Ha,  you  ! 

How  came  yon  hither  ? 

Eleanor.     Your  own  child  brought  me 

hither  ! 
Geoffrey.    You  said  you  could  n't  trust 

Margery,  and  I  watched  her  and  followed 

her  into  the  woods,  and  I  lost    her  and 

went  on  and  on  till  I  found  the  light  and 

the  lady,  and  she  snys  she  can  make  you 

sleep  o'  nights. 

Rosamund.     How  dared  you  ?     Know 
you  not  this  bower  is  secret, 

Of  and  belonging  to  the  King  of  Eng- 
land, 

More   sacred    than   his  forests    for   the 
chase  1 

Nay,  nay.  Heaven   help  you ;    get  you 
hence  in  haste 

Lest  worse  befall  you. 

Eleanor.         Child,  I  am  mine  own  self 

Of  and  belonging  to  the  King.    The  King 

Hath  divers  ofs  and  ons,  ofs  and  belong- 
ings. 

Almost  as   many  as  your   true   Mussul- 
man — 

Belongings,  paramours,  whom  it  pleases 
him 

To  call  his  wives  ;  but  so  it  chances,  child, 

That  I  am  his  main  paramour,  his  sul- 
tana. 

But  since  the  fondest  pair  of  doves  will 
jar, 

Ev'n  in  a  cage  of  gold,  we  had  words  of 
late, 

And    thereupon    he   call'd   my    children 
bastards. 

Do  you  believe  that  you  are  married  to 
him? 
Rosamund.     I  should  believe  it. 
Eleanor.  You  must  not  believe  it, 

j3ecause  I  have   a   wholesome    medicine 
here 

Puts  that  belief   asleep.      Y'our  nnswer, 
beauty ! 

Do  you  believe  that  vou  are  married  to 
him? 
Rosamund.     Geoffrey,   my    hoy,   I   saw 

the  ball  you  lost  in  the  fork  of  the  great 


willow  over  the  brook.    Go.   See  that  yott 
do  not  fall  in.     Go. 

Geoffrey.     And  leave  you  alone  with 
the  good  fairy.    She  calls  you  beauty,  but 
I  don't  like  her  looks.     Well,  you  bid  me 
go,  and  I  '11  have  my  ball  anyhow.    Shall 
I  find  you  asleep  when  I  come  back  ? 
Rosamund.     Go.         [Exit  Geoffrey 
Eleanor.     He  is  easily  found  again.   D(. 
you  believe  it  1 
I   pray  you  then  to    take   my  sleeping- 
draught  ; 
But  if  you  should  not  care  to  take  it — > 
sec  !  [Draws  a  dagger. 

What !  have  I  scared  the  red  rose  from 

your  face 
Into  your  heart  ?     But  this  will  find  it 

there. 
And  dig  it  from  the  root  forever. 

Rosamund.  Help  !  help  ! 

Eleanor.     They   say    that    walls   have 
ears  ;  but  these,  it  seems. 
Have  none !  and  I  have  none  —  to  pity 
thee. 
Rosamund.      I   do   beseech   you — my 
child  is  so  young. 
So  backward  too ;  I  cannot  leave  him  yet. 
I  am  not  so  happy  I  could  not  die  myself. 
But  the  child  is  so  young.      You   have 

children  —  his ; 
And  mine  is  the  King's  child  ;  so,  if  you 

love  him  — 
Nay,  if  you  love  him,  there  is  great  wrong 

done 
Somehow  ;  but  if  you  do  not  —  there  are 

those 
Who  say  you  do  not  love  him  —  let  me  go 
AVith  my  young  boy,  and  I  will  hide  my 

face. 
Blacken  and  gipsyfy  it  ;  none  shall  know 

me  ; 
The  King  shall  never  hear  of  me  again, 
But  I  will  beg  my  bread  along  the  world 
With  my  young  boy,  and  God  will  be  our 

guide. 
I  never  meant  you  harm  in  any  way. 
See,  I  can  say  no  more. 

Eleanor.    Will  you  not  say  you  are  no'i 

married  to  him  ? 
Rosainund.     Ay,  Madam,  I  can  say  it, 

if  you  will. 
Eleanor.    Then  is  thy  pretty  boy  a  bas- 
tard ? 
Rosamund.  No. 

Eleanor.     And   thou  thyself   a  proven 

wanton  ? 
Rosamund.  No. 


BECKET. 


741 


I  am  none  such.      I  never  loved  but  one. 
I  have  heard  of  such  that  range  from 

love  to  love. 
Like  the  wild   beast  —  if  you  can  call  it 

love. 
I  have  heard  of  such  —  yea,  even  among 

those 
Who  sit  on  thrones  —  I  never  saw  any 

such. 
Never  knew  any  such,  and  howsoever 
You  do  misname  me,  match'd  witii  any 

sucli, 
S  am  snow  to  mud. 

Eleanor.  The  more  tlie  pity  then 

That  thy  true  home  —  the  heavens  —  cry 

out  for  thee 
Who  art  too  jjure  fur  earth. 

Enter    Fitzurse. 

Filznrse.  Give  her  to  mc. 

Eleanor.     The  Judas-lover  of  our  pas- 
.«ion-play 
Hath  track'd  us  hither. 

Fitzurse.      Well,  wjiy  not?     I  follow'd 

You  and  the  child  :  lie  babbled  all  tiie  way. 

Give  lier  to  me  to  mukc  my  honeymoon. 

Eleanor.     Ay,  as  the  bears  love  honey. 

Could  you  keep  iier 

Indungeon'd    from   one    whisper   of   the 

wind. 
Dark  even  from   a  side   glance   of   the 

moon, 
And  oublietted  in  the  centre  — No  ! 
I  follow  out  my  hate  and  thy  revenge. 
Fitzurse.     You  bade  me  take  revenge 
another  wny  — 
To  bring  her  to  the  dust.  .  .  .  Conic  with 

me,  love, 
And  I   will   love   thee.  .  .  .  Madam,  let 

her  live. 
I  have  a  far-off  burrow  where  the  King 
Would  mis.s  her  and  forever. 

Eleanor.     How  sayst  thou,  sweetheart  ? 
Wilt  thou  go  with  him  1   he  will  marry 
thee. 
Rosamund.         Give  me  the  poison  ;  set 
me  free  of  him  ! 

[Eleaxor  offers  the  vial. 
No,  no !     I  will  not  have  it. 

Eleanor.  Then  this  other, 

The  wiser  choice,  because  my  sleeping- 
draught 
May  bloat  thy  beauty  out  of  shape,  and 

make 
Thy  body  loath-ome  even  to  thy  child ; 
While  this  but  leaves  thee  with  a  broken 
heart, 


I  A  doll-face  blanch'd  and   bloodless,  over 
i  wliich 

If  pretty  Geoffrey  do  not  break  his  own, 
It  must  be  broken  for  him. 

Ixosamund.  O  I  see  now 

Your  purpose  is  to  fright  me — a  trouba- 
I  dour 

You   play  with  words.     You  had   never 

used  so  many. 
Not  if  vou  meant   it,  I   am  sure.     The 

child  .  .  . 
No  .  .  .  mercy!     No!  [Kiieels. 

Eleanor.    Play  !  .  .  .  that  bosom  never 
Heaved  under  the  King's  hand  with  such 

true  j)assion 
As  at  this   loveless    knife   that  stirs  the 

riot. 
Which  it  will  quench  in  blood !    Slave,  if 

he  love  ihee, 
Thy  life  is  worili  the  wrestle  for  it :  arise. 
And  dasli  thyself  against  me  that  I  may 

slay  I  liee  ! 
The  worm  !  shall  I  let  her  go  1     But  ha! 

what  's  here  1 
By  very  God,  tlie  cross  I  gave  tlie  King! 
His  village  darling  in  some  lewd  caress 
Has  wheedled  it  off  the  King's  neck  to 

her  own. 
By  thy  leave,  beauty.     Ay,  the  same  !    I 

warrant 
Tliou  hast  SMoni  on  I  his  my  cross  a  hun- 
dred times 
Never   to  leave  him  —  and  that  merits 

death, 
False  loatii  on  holy  cross  —  for  thou  must 

leave  him 
To-day,  but   not   quite   yet.      My  good 

Fitzurse, 
The  running  down  the  chase  is  kindlier 

sport 
Ev'n    than  the  death.     Who  knows  but 

that  tliy  lover 
Mav  plead  so  pitifullv,  that  I  may  spare 

thee  ? 
Come  hither,    man;   stand    there.      (To 

Rosamttnfi.)   Take  thy  one  chance; 
Catch  at  the  last  straw.      Kneel  to  thy 

lord  Fitzurse  ; 
Crouch  even  because    thou    hatest   him  •, 

fawn  upon  him 
For  thy  life  and  thy  son's. 

Rosamund  {rising).         I  am  a  Clifford, 
My  son  a  Clifford  and  Plantagenet. 
I  am  to  die  then,  tho'  there  stand  beside 

thee 
One  who  might  grapple  with  thy  dagger, 

if  he 


742 


BECKET. 


Had  aught  of  man,  or  thou  of  woman ; 

or  I 
Would  bow  to  such  a  baseness  as  would 

make  me 
Most  worthy  of  it :  both  of  us  will  die, 
And  I   will   fly  with   my   sweet   boy  to 

heaven, 
And  sliriek  to  all  the  saints  among  the 

stars: 
'"'Eleanor  of  Aquitaine,  Eleanor  of  Eng- 
land ! 
Murder 'd  by  that  adulteress  Eleanor, 
"Whose  doings  are  a  horror  to  the  east, 
A  hissing  in   the  west ! "     Have  we  not 

heard 
Raymond  of  Poitou,  thine  own  uncle  — 

nay, 
(Jeoffrey    Plantagenet,     thine   own    hus- 
band's father  — 
Nay,  ev'n  the  accursed  heathen    Salad- 

deen  — 
Strike  ! 

I  challenge  thee  to  meet  me  before  God. 
Answer  me  there. 

Eleanor  {raising  the  dagger).     This    in 

thy  bosom,  fool, 
And  after  in  thy  bastard's  ! 

Enter  3ecket  from  behind.     Catches  hold 
of  her  arm. 

Becke'.  Murderess ! 

[The  dagger  falls  ;  they  stare  at  one  an- 
other.    After  a  pause. 
Eleanor.    My  lord,  we  know  you  proud 
of  your  fine  hand. 
But  having  now  admired  it  long  enough. 
We  find  that  it  is  mightier  than  it  seems  — 
At   least  mine  own  is   frailer :  j'ou   are 
laming  it. 
Becket.    And  lamed  and  maiin'd  to  dis- 
location, better       . 
Than  raised  to  take  a  life  which   Henry 

bade  me 
Guard  from  the  stroke  that  dooms  thee 

alter  death 
To  wail  in  deathless  flame. 

Eleanor.  Nor  you,  nor  I 

Have   now  to  learn,  my  lord,  that  our 

good  Henry 
Says  many  a  thing  in  sudden  heats,  which 

he 
Gainsays  by  next  sunrising  —  often  ready 
To  tear  himself  for  having  said  as  much. 
My  lord,  Fitzurse  — 

Becket.    He  too  !  what  dost  thou  here  1 
Dares   the    bear  slouch   into   the   lion's 
den? 


One  downward  plunge  of  his  paw  would 

rend  away 
Eyesight   and  manhood,  life  itself,   from 

thee. 
Go,  lest  I  blast  thee  with  anathema, 
And  make  thee  a  world's  horror. 

Fitzurse.  My  lord,  I  shall 

Eeinember  this. 

Becket.  I  c?o  remember  thee ; 

Lest  I  remember  thee  to  the  lion,  go. 

[Exit  Fitzurse. 
Take   up   your   dagger ;    put   it  in   the 

sheath. 
Eleanor.      Might    not    your    courtesy 

stoop  to  hand  it  me  1 
But  crowns  must  bow  when  mitres  sit  so 

high. 
Well  —  well  —  too  costly  to  be  left  or  lost. 
[Picks  up  the  dagger. 
I  had  it  from  an  Arab  soldan,  who. 
When  I  was  there  in  Antioch,  marvell'd 

at 
Our  unfamiliar  beauties  of  the  west ; 
But   wonder'd   more   at   my    much   con- 
stancy 
To   the   monk-king,    Louis,  our    former 

burden, 
Frbm  whom,  as  being  too  kin,  you  know, 

my  lord, 
God's  grace  and  Holy  Church  deliver'd 

us. 
I  think,  time  given,  I  could  have  talk'd 

him  out  of 
His  ten  wives  into  one.    Look  at  the  hilt. 
What   excellent  workmanship.      In  our 

poor  west 
We  cannot  do  it  so  well. 

Becket.  We  can  do  worse. 

Madam,  I  saw  your  dagger  at  her  throat ; 
I  heard  your  savage  cry. 

Eleanor.  Well  acted,  was  it? 

A  comedy  meant  to  seem  a  tragedy  — 
A  feint,  a  farce.      My  honest  lord,  you 

are  known 
Thro'  all  the  courts  of  Christendom  as 

one 
That  mars  a  cause  with  over-violence. 
You  have  wrong'd  Fitzurse.     I  speak  not 

of  myself. 
We  thought  to  scare  this  minion  of  the 

King 
Back  from  her  churchless  commerce  with 

the  King 
To  the  fond  arms  of  her  first  love,  Fitz- 
urse, 
Who  swore  to  marry   her.       You  have 

spoilt  the  farce. 


BECKET. 


743 


My  savage  cry?   Why,  she  —  she  —  when 

I  strove 
To  work  agaiust  her  license  for  her  gootl, 
Bark'd  out  at  nie  such  monstrous  charges, 

that 
The   King  himself,   for  lore  of  his  own 

sous, 
If   hearing,    would   have    spurn'd    her; 

wiiereupon 
I   menaced    lur  with    this,  as  when    we 

tin-eatt'ii 
A  yelper  with  a  stick.     Nay,  I  deny  not 
That  I  was  somewhat  anger'd.     Do  you 

hear  me  ? 
Believe  or  no,  I  care  not.     You  have  lost 
The  ear  of  the  King.    I  have  it.  .  .  .  My 

Lord  Paramount, 
Our    great    High-priest,  will   not    your 

Holiness 
Vouchsafe    a   gracious    answer   to  your 

Queen  ? 
Beckct.     Kosamuiid  hath  not  answer'd 

you  one  word  ; 
Madam,  1  will  not  answer  you  one  word. 
Daughter,    the  world    hath  trick'd  tliee. 

Leave  il,  daughter, 
Come  thou  witli  me  to  Godstow  nunnery, 
And  live  wiiat  may  be  left  thcc  of  a  life 
Saved  as  by  miracle  alone  with  Hira 
Who  gave  it. 

Reenter  Geoffrey. 

Geoffrey.    Mother,  you  told  me  a  great 

fib  :  it  was  n't  in  the  willow. 
Becket.     Follow   us,   my  son,   and  we 

will  find  it  for  thee  — 
Or  something  manlier. 

[Exeunt    Becket,     Kosamund     and 

Geoffrey. 

Eleanor.     The  world  hath  trick'd  her 

—  that 's  the  King ;  if  so, 
There  was  the  farce,  the  feint  —  not  mine. 

And  yet 
I  am  all  but  sure  my  dagger  was  a  feint 
Till  the  worm  turn'd  —  not  life  shot  up 

in  blood. 
But  death  drawn  in  ;  —  {looking  at  the  vial) 

this  was  no  feint  then  1   no. 
But  can  I  swear  to  that,  had  she  but  given 
Plain  answer  to    plain  query  1    nay,  me- 

thinks 
Had  she  but  bow'd  herself  to   meet  the 

wave 
Of    humiliation,    worshipt     whom     she 

loathed 
I  should  have  let  her  be,  scorn'd  her  too 

much 


To  harm  her.    Henry  —  Becket  tells  him 

this  — 
To  take  my  life  might  lose  him  Aqui- 

taine. 
Too  politic  for  that.     Imprison  me  ? 
No,  for  it  came  to  nothing  —  only  a  feint. 
Did  she   not  tell  me  I  was  playing  on 

her  ? 
I  '11   swear  to  mine  own   self    it   was   a 

feint. 
Why  should  I  swear,  Eleanor,  who  am, 

or  was, 
A  sovereign  power  ?     The   King  plucks 

out  their  eyes 
Who    anger   him",  and   shall  not   I,   the 

Queeu, 
Tear  out  her  heart — kill,  kill  with  knife 

or  venom 
Oue  of  his  slanderous  harlots  ?   "  None  of 

such  ? " 
I    love   her   none  the  more.       Tut,   the 

chance  gone. 
She  lives —  but  not  for  him  ;  one  point  is 

gain'J. 
O  I,  that  thro'  the  Pope  divorced  King 

Louis, 
Scorning  his   monkery,  —  I  that  wedded 

Plenry, 
Honoring  his  manhood  —  will  he  not  mock 

at  me 
Tiie   jealous   fool   balk'd  of  her   will  — 

with  him  ? 
But  he  and  he  must  never  meet  again. 
Reginald  Pitzurse ! 

Reenter  Fitzurse. 

Fitzurse.     Here,  Madam,  at  your  pleas- 
ure. 
Eleanor.    My  pleasure  is  to  have  a  man 

about  me. 
Why  did  you  slink  away  so  like  a  cur  ? 
Fitzurse.     Madam,  I  am  as  much  man 

as  the  King. 
Madam,  I  fear  Church-censures  like  your 

King. 
Eleanor.     He   grovels   to   the    Church 

when  he  's  black-blooded. 
But  kinglikc  fought  the  proud  archbishop, 

—  kinglike 
Defied  the  Pope,  and,  like  his  kingly  sires, 
The  Normans,  striving  still  to  break  or 

bind 
The  spiritual  giant  witii  our  island  laws 
And  customs,  made  me  for  the  moment 

proud 
Ev'n  of   that  stale  Church  -  bond  which 

link'd  me  with  him 


T44 


BECKET. 


To  bear  him  kinj^ly  sons.     I  am  not  so 

sure 
But  that  1  love  him  still.     Thou  as  much 

mau ! 
No  more  of  that ;  we  will  to  France  and 

be 
Beforehand  with  the  King,  and  brew  from 

out 
This  Godstow-Becket  intermeddling  such 
A  strong  liate-jihiltre  as  may  madden  him 

—  madden 
Against  his  priest  beyond  all  hellebore. 


ACT  V. 

ScENK  I.  —  Castle  in  Normandy.     King's 

Chamber. 
Henry,  Roger  of  York,  Foliot,  Jo- 

CELYN  OF    SaIJSBURY. 

Roger  of  York-.     Nay,  nay,  my  liege. 

He  rides  abroad  with  armed  followers, 

Hath  broken  all  his  promises  to  thyself. 

Cursed  and  anatiiematized  us  rigiu  and 
left, 

Stirr'd    up   a   })arty  there   against   your 
sou  — 
Henry.     l?oger   of  York,  you  always 
hated  him, 

Even  when  you  both  were  boys  at  Theo- 
bald's. 
Roger  of  York.     I  always  hated  bound- 
less arrogance. 

In  mine  own  cause  I  strove  against  him 
there, 

And  in  thy  cause  I  strive  against  him 
now. 
Henri/.      I    cannot    think     he   moves 
against  my  son, 

Knowing  right  well  with  wliat  a  tender- 
ness 

He  loved  my  son. 

Roger  of  York.      Before  you  made  him 
king. 

But  Beckct  ever  moves  against  a  king. 

The  Church  is  all  —  the  crime  to  be  a 
king. 

We  trust  your  Royal  Grace,  lord  of  more 
land 

Than  any  crown  in  Europe,  will  not  yield 

To  lay  your  neck  beneath  your  citizen's 
heel. 
Henri/.    Not  to  a  Gregory  of  my  thron- 
ing !     No. 
Foliot.     My  royal    liege,  in  aiming  at 
your  love, 

It  may  be  sometimes  1  have  overshot 


My  duties  to  our  Holy  Mother  Church, 
Tho'  all  the  world  allows  I  fall  no  inch 
Behind  this  Becket,  ratlier  go  beyond 
In  scourgings,  macerations,  mortifyings, 
Fasts,  discijdines  that  clear  the  spiritual 

eye, 
And  break  the  soul  from  earth.     Let  all 

that  be. 
I  boast  not :  but  you  know  thro'  all  this 

quarrel 
I  still  have  cleaved  to  the  crown,  in  hope 

the  crown 
Would  cleave  to  me  that  but  obey'd  the 

crown. 
Crowning  your  son  ;  for  which  our  loyal 

service, 
And  since  we  likewise  swore  to  obey  the 

customs, 
York  and  myself,  and  our  good  Salisbury 

here. 
Are  push'd    from  out  communion  of  the 

Church. 
Jocelyn  of  Salisbury.     Becket  hath  trod- 
den on  us  like  worms,  my  liege  ; 
Trodden  one   half  dead ;   one  half,  but 

half  alive. 
Cries  to  tlic  King. 

Henry  (aside).     Take  care  o'  thyself, 

O  King. 
Jocelyn  of  Salisbury.     Being  so  crush'd 

and  so  humiliated 
We  scarcely  dare  to  bless  the  food  we  eat 
Because  of  Becket. 

Henry.       What  would  ye  have  me  do  ? 
Roger  of  York.     Summon  your  barons; 

take  their  counsel :  yet 
I     know — could    swear — as    long    as 

Becket  bi-enthes, 
Your  Grace  will  never  have  one  quiet 

hour. 
Henry.  What?  .  .  .  Ay  .  .  .  but  pray 

you  do  not  work  u]jon  me. 
I  see  your  drift  ...  it  ma_\-  be  so  .  .  . 

and  yet 
You  know  me  easily  auger 'd.     Will  you 

hence  1 
He  shall  absolve  you  .  .  .  you  shall  have 

redress. 
I  have  a  dizzying  headache.    Let  me  rest. 
I  '11  call  you  by  and  by. 

[Exeunt  Roger  of  York,  Foliot_ 

and  Jocelyn  of  Salishury. 

Would  he  were  dead  !     I  have  lost  all 

love  for  him. 
If  God  would  take  him  in  some  sudden 


way  — 
Would  he  were  dead. 


[Lies  down 


BECKET. 


745 


Page  (enten'nq).      My  liege,  the  Queen 

of  England. 
Henry.     God's  eyes  !  \^Starliny  up. 

Enter  Eleanor. 

Eleanor.     Of  England  ?     Say  of  Aqui- 

taine. 
I  am   no   Queen   of    Enj^laud.      I    had 

dreain'd 
I  was  the  bride  nf  Ei)<,fhuid,  and  a  queen. 
Henry.     And,  —  wiiile  you  dreani'd  you 

were  the  bride  of  Enghuul,  — 
Stirring  her  bahv-iiing  against  me  ?  ha  ! 
Eleanor.     The  b-ideless  Bicivet  is  thy 

king  and  mine  ; 
I  will  go  live  and  die  in  Aquitaine. 

Henry.     Except  I  clap  thee  into  prison 

here, 
Lest  thou  shouldst  play  the  wanton  there  i 

again. 
Ha,  you  of  Aquitaine  !     O  you  of  Aqui-  i 

taine !  j 

You  were  but  Aquitaine  to  Louis  —  no 

wife  ; 
You  are  only  Aquitaine  to  me  —  no  wife. 
Eleanor.     And  wliy,  my  lord,  should  I 

be  wife  to  one 
That  oiily  we(hled  me  for  Aquitaine  ? 
Yet  this  no  wife  —  her  six  and  thirty  sail 
Of  Provence  blew  you  to  your  English 

throne  ; 
And  this  no  wife  has  borne  yon  four  brave 

sons. 
And  one  of  them  at  least  is  hke  to  prove 
Bigger  in  our  small  world  than  tiiou  art. 

Henry.  Ay  — 

Kichard,   if   he   lie   mine  —  I   hope   him 

mine. 
But  thou  art  like  enougii  to  make  him 

thine. 
Eleanor.      Becket    is   like   enough    to 

make  all  his. 
Henry.     Methought  I  had  recover'd  of 

the  Becket, 
That  all  was  planed  and  bevell'd  smooth 

again, 
Save  from  some  hateful  cantrip  of  thine 

own. 
Eleanor.     I   will   go    live   and    die    in 

Aquitaine. 
I  dream'd  I  was  the  consort  of  a  king, 
Not    one   whose    back    his    priest    has 

broken. 
Henry.  What  ! 

Is  the  end  come?     You,  will  you  crown 

my  foe 
My  victor  in  mid-battle  1     I  will  be 


Sole  master  of  my  honse.    The  end  is 

mine. 
What  game,  what  juggle,  wliat   devilry 

are  you  playing  i 
Why  do  you  thiust  this   Becket  on  me 
again  ? 
Eleanor.     Why  ?  for   I  am  true  wife, 
and  have  my  fears 
Lest  Becket  thrust  you  even  from  your 

throne. 
Do  you  know  this  cross,  my  liege  ? 

Henry  (turning  his  head).    Away  !  not  I. 
Eleanor.    Noc  ev'n  the  central  diamond, 
worth,  I  think. 
Half  of  the  Antioch  whence  1  had  it  ? 
Henry.  That  ? 

Eleanor.     I  gave  it  you,  and  you  your 
paramour ; 
She  sends  it  back,  as  being  dead  to  earth, 
So  dead  henceforth  to  you. 

Henry.    Dead  !  you  liave  murder'd  her, 
Found  out  her  secret  bower  and  murder'd 
her. 
Eleanor.     Your  Becket  knew  the  secret 

of  your  bower. 
Henry  (calling  out).    Ho  there  !  thy  rest 

of  life  is  liopeless  prison. 
Eleanor.      And    what   would   my   own 
Aquitaine  say  to  tliat  ■* 
First  free  thy  captive  from  her  hopeless 
prison. 
Henry.     ()  devil,  can  I  free  her  from 

the  grave  ? 
Eleanor.     You  are  too  tragic  :  both  of 
us  are  players 
In  such  a  comedy  as  our  court  of  Pro- 
vence 
Had  laugh 'd  at.    That 's  a  delicate  Latin 

lay 
Of  Walter  Map  :  the  lady  holds  the  cleric 
Lovelier  than  any  soldier,  his  poor  ton- 
sure 
A  crown  of  Empire.     Will  you  have  iS 
again  ? 
( Offerinq  the  cross.      He  daslies  it  down.) 
Rr.  Cujiid,  that  is  too  irreverent. 
Then  mine  once  more.     {Puis  it  on.) 

Yonr  cleric  hath  your  lady. 
Nay,  what  uncomely  faces,  could  he  see 

you ! 
Foam    at     the     mouth    because    King 

Thomas,  lord 
Not  only  of  your  vassals  hut  amours, 
Thro'  chastest  honor  of  the  Decnloirue. 
Hath    used    the   full    authority   of    hia 

Church 
To  put  her  into  Godstow  nunnery. 


746 


BECKET. 


Henry.  To  put  her  into  Godstow  nun- 
nery ; 

He  dared  not  —  liar!  yet,  yet  I  remem- 
ber— 

I  do  remember. 

He  bade  me  put  her  into  a  nunnery  — 

Into  Godstow,  iuto  Hellstow,  ])evilstow  ! 

Tlie  Churcli !  the  Church  ! 

God's  eyes !  I  would  the  Church  were 
down  ill  IkH  !  [Exit. 

Eleanor.    Ahu ! 

Enter  the  four  Knights. 

Fitsurse.     What   n}ade   tlie   King   cry 

out  so  furiously  1 
Eleanor.      Our   Becket,   who  will   not 

absolve  the  Bishops. 
I  think  ye  four  have  cause  to  love  this 

Becket. 
Fitzurse.     1  hate  him  for  his  insolence 

to  all. 
De  Tructi.     And  I  for  all  his  insolence 

to  tiiee. 
De  Brilo.     I  hate  him  for  I  hate  him 

is  my  reason, 
And  yet  I  hate  him  for  a  hypocrite. 
De  Moiville.'  I  do  not  love  him,  for  he 

did  his  l)est 
To  break  the  barons,  and  now  braves  the 

Kin^. 
Eleanor.      Strike,   then,  at  once;    the 

King  would  have  him  —  See ! 

Reenter  Henry. 

Henry.    No  man  to  love  me,  honor  me, 

obey  me ! 
Slusrfrards  and  fools ! 
The  slave  that  eat  my  bread  has  kick'd 

his  Kinji ! 
The  dog  I  crainni'd  with  dainties  worried 

me! 
The  fellow  that  on  a  lame  jade  came  to 

court, 
A  ragged  cloak  for  saddle  —  he,  he,  he, 
To  shake   my   throne,  to  push  into  my 

chamber  — 
Mv  bed,  where  ev'n  the  slave  is  private  — 

he  — 
I  '11  have  her  out  again,  he  shall  absolve 
The  Bishops  —  they  but  did  my  will  — 

not  you  — 
Sluggards  and  fools,  why  do  you  stand 

and  stare  ? 
Yow   are  no  king's  men — you — you  — 

you  ave  Becket's  men. 
Down  -with    King   Henry  I    up  with  the 

Archbishop  I 


Will  no  man  rid  me  from  this  pestilent 

priest  ?  [^Exit. 

{The  Knights  draw  their  swords 

Eleanor.     Are  ye   king's  men  ?     1  am 

king's  woman,  I. 
The  Knights.      King's   men  !      King's 
men  1 

Scene  II.  — A  Room  in  Canterbury  Man 
astery. 

Becket  and  John  of  Salisbury. 

Becket.     York  said  so  ? 

John  of  Scdisbury.         Yes:  a  luau  may 

take  good  counsel 
Ev'n  from  his  foe. 

Becket.  York  will  say  anything. 

What  is  he  saying  now  1    gone  to  the 

King 
And    taken    our    anathema  with    him. 

York  ! 
Can  I  he  Kingde-anathematize  this  York? 
John  of  Salisburi/.     Thomas,    I  would 

thou  hadst  return'd  to  England, 
Like  some  wise  prince  of  this  world  from 

his  wars, 
With  more  of  olive-branch  and  amnesty 
For  foes  at  home  —  thou  hast  raised  the 

world  against  thee. 
Becket.      Why,  John,  my   kingdom  is 

not  of  this  world. 
John  of  Sidlshury.     If  it  were  more  of 

this  world  it  might  be 
More  of  the  next.     A  policy  of  wise  par- 
don 
Wins  here  as  well  as  there.    To  bless 

thine  enemies  — 
Berket.     Ay,  mine,  not  Heaven's. 
John  of  Salishury.     And  may  there  not 

be  something 
Of  this  world's  leaven  in  thee  too,  when 

crying 
On   Holv   Church  to  thunder  out    her 

riglits 
And  thine  own  wrong  so  pitilessly.     Ah, 

Thomas, 
The   lightnings  that  we  think  are  only 

Heaven's 
Flash  sometimes  out  of  earth  against  the 

heavens. 
The  soldier,  when  he  lets  his  whole  self  go 
Lost  in  the  common  good,  the  common 

wrong, 
Strikes  truest  ev'n   for  his  own  self.     1 

crave 
Thy  pardon  —  I  have  still  thy  leave  to 

speali. 


BECKET. 


747 


Thou  hast  waged  God's  war  against  the 

Kiug  ;  and  vet 
We  are  seif-uncertaiu  creatures,  and  we 

may, 
Yea,  even   wlieu  we  know  not,  mix  our 

spites 
And  private  hates  with  our   defence  of 

Heaven. 

Enter  Edward  Grim. 

Becket.     Thou  art  but  yesterday  from 
Cambridge,  Grim  ; 
What  say  ye  there  of  Becket  ? 

Grim.  I  believe  him 

The  bravest  in  our  roll  of  Pi  imates  down 
From    Austin  —  thore    are    some  —  for 

tliere  arc  men 
Of  canker'd  judgment  everywhere  — 

Becket.  Who  hold 

With  York,  with  York  against  me. 

Grim.  Well,  my  lord, 

A  stranger  monk  desires  access  to  you. 

Becket,  York  against  Canterbury,  York 
against  God  ! 
I  am  open  to  him.  [Exit  Grim. 

Enter  Rosamund  as  a  Monk. 

Rosamund.  Can  I  speak  with  you 

Alone,  my  father  ? 

Becket.  Come  you  to  confess  ? 

Rosamund.     Not  now. 
Becket.     Then  speak  ;  this  is  mv  other 
self. 
Who  like  my  conscience  never  lets  me  be. 
Rosamund   (tfiroiving  back  the  cowl).     I 
know  iiim  ;  our  good  John  of  Salis- 
bury. 
Becket.      Breaking    already   from   thy 
novitiate 
To  plunge  into  this  bitter  world  again  — 
These  wells  of  Marah.    I  am  grieved,  my 

daughter. 
I  thought  that   I  had  made  a  peace  for 
thee. 
Rosamund.     Small  peace  was  mine  in 
my  novitiate,  father. 
Thro'  all  closed  doors  a  dreadful  whisper 

crept 
That  thou  wouldst   excommunicate  the 

King. 
I  could  not  eat,  sleep,  pray  :  I  had  with 

me 
The  monk's  disguise  thou  gavesc  me  for 

my  bower : 
1  think  our  Abbess  knew  it  and  allow'd  if 
I  fled,  and  found  thy  name  a  charm  to  get 
me 


Food,  roof,  and  rest.      I  met  a  robber 

ouce, 
I  told  him  I  was  bound  to  see  the  Arch- 
bishop; 
"  Pass  on,"   lie  said,  and  in  thy  name  I 

pass'd 
From  house  to  house.   In  one  a  son  stone- 
blind 
Sat  by  his  mother'a  hearth :  he  had  gone 

too  far 
Into  the  King's  own  woods  ;  and  the  pool 

mother, 
Soon  as  t^he  learnt  I  was  a  friend  of  thine, 
Cried  out  against  tlie  cruelty  of  the  King. 
I  said  it  was  the  King's  courts,  not  the 

King; 
But  she  would  not  believe  me,  and  she 

wish'd 
The  Church  were  king:  she  had  seen  the 

Archbishop  once. 
So  mild,  .so  kind.     The  people  love  thee, 
father. 
Becket.     Alas!  when  I  was  Chancellor 
to  the  King, 
I  fear  I  was  as  cruel  as  the  King. 

Rosamund.     Cruel?      Oh,    no— it   is 
the  law,  not  he  ; 
The  customs  of  the  realm. 

Becket.  The  customs !  customs ! 

Rosamund.     My  lord,  you  have  not  ex- 
comnmnicated  himi 
Oil,  if  you  have,  absolve  him  \ 

Becket.  Daughter,  daughter, 

Deal  not  with  things  you  know  not. 

Rosamund.  I  know  him. 

Then  you  have  done  it,  and  I  call  you 

cruel. 

Joiui  of  Salisbury/.     No,  daughter,  you 

mistake  our  good  Archbishop  ; 

For  once  in  France  the  King  had  been  so 

harsh, 
He    thought    to   excommunicate    him  — 

Thomas, 
You  could  not  —  old   affection  master 'c". 

you, 
You  falter'd  into  tears. 
Rosamund.  God  bless  him  for  it. 

Becket.     Nay,  make  me  not  a  woman, 
John  of  Salisbury, 
Nor  make  me  traitor  to  my  holy  office. 
Did  not  a  man's  voice  ring  along  the  aisle, 
"  The  King  is  sick  and  almost  unto  death." 
How  could  I  excommunicate  him  then? 
Rosamund.     And  wilt  thou  excommu 

nicate  him  now  ? 
Becket.     Daughter,  ray  time  is  short, 
I  shall  not  do  it. 


748 


BECKEl. 


And  were  it  louger —  well  —  I  should  not 
do  it. 
Rosamimd.     Thanks   in  this  life,   and 

in  the  life  to  come. 
Becket.     Get    thee    back   to    thy   nun- 
nery with  all  haste ; 
Let  this  be  thy  last  trespass.     But  one 

question  — 
How  fai-es  thy  prettv  boy,  the  little  Geof- 
frey? " 
No  fever,  cough,  croup,  sickness? 

Rosamund.  No,  but  saved 

From   ail   that    by    our   solitude.      The 

plagues 
That  smite  the  city  spare  the  solitudes. 
Beckel.     God  save  him  from  all  sick- 
ness of  the  soul  ! 
Thee  too,  thy  .solitude  amonnf  thy  nuns, 
May  that  save  thee  !    Doth  he  remember 
me? 
Rosamund.     I  warrant  him. 
Becket.       He  is  marvellously  like  thee. 
Rosamund.     Liker  the  King. 
Becket.  No,  daughter. 

Rosamund.  Ay,  but  wait 

Till  ids  nose  rises  ;  he  will  be  very  king. 
Becket.     Kv'u  so  :  but  think  not  of  the 

King :  farewell  ! 
Rosamund.     My  lord,  the  city  is  full  of 

armed  men. 
Becket.     Ev'n  so  :  farewell ! 
Rosamund.      I  will  but  pass  to  vespers, 
And  breathe  one  prayer  for  my  liege-lord 

the  King, 
His  child  and  mine  own  soul,  and  so  re- 
turn. 
Beckel.     Pray  for  me  too  :  much  need 
of  prayer  have  I. 

[KosAMUND  kneels  and  noes. 
Dan  John,   how  much  we  los3,  we  celi- 
bates, 
Lacking  the  love  of  woman  and  of  child. 
John  ofSalisburi/.   More  gain  than  loss  ; 
for  of  your  wives  you  shall 
Find  one  a  filut  whose  fairest  linen  seems 
Foul  as  her  du.st-cloth,  if  she  used  it  —  one 
So  charged  with  tongue,  that  every  thread 

of  thought 
Is  broken  ere  it  joins  —  a  shrew  to  boot, 
Whose  evil  song  far  on  into  the  night 
Thrills  to  the  topmost  tile  —  no  hope  but 

death  ; 
One  slow,  fat,  white,  a   burden   of  the 

hearih  ; 
And  one  that  being  thwarted  ever  swoons 
And    weeps    herself    into    the   place  of 
power ; 


And  one  an  uxor  pauperis  Ibyci. 

So  rare  the  household  honeymaking  bee, 

Man's  help  !  but  we,  we  have  the  Blessed 

Virgin 
For  worship,  and  our  Mother  Church  for 

bride ', 
And  all  the  souls  we  saved  and  father'd 

here 
Will  greet  us  as  our  babes  in  Paradise, 
What   noise   was   that  ?  she   told   us  of 

arm'd  men 
Here  in  the  city.      Will  you  not  with- 
draw 1 
Becket.     I  once  was  out  with  Henry  iu 

the  days 
When   Henry   loved   me,   and   >ve  came 

upon 
A  wild -fowl  sitting  on  her  nest,  so  still 
I  reacli'd  my  hand  and  touch'd ;  she  did 

not  stir  ; 
The  snow  had  frozen  round  her,  and  she 

sat 
Stone-dead  upon  a  heap  of  ice-cold  eggs. 
Look !  how  this  love,  this  mother,  runs 

thro'  all 
The  world  God  made  —  even  the  beast  — 

the  bird  ! 
John  of  Sdlisburi/.     Ay,  still  a  lover  of 

the  beast  and  bird  ? 
But  these  arm'd  men  —  will  you  not  hide 

yourself? 
Perchance  the  fierce  De  Brocs  from  Salt- 
wood  Castle, 
To  assail  our    Holy   Mother    lest    she 

lirood 
Too  long  o'er  this  hard  egg,  the  world, 

and  send 
Her  whole  heart's  heat  into  it,  till  it  break 
Into  young  angels.    Pray  you,  hide  your- 
self. 
Becket.     There  was  a  little  fair-hair'd 

Norman  maid 
Lived  in    my   mother's  house :  if  liosa- 

mund  is 
The  world's  rose,  as  her  name  imports 

her —  she 
Was  tlie  world's  lily. 
John  of  Salisbury.         Ay,  and  what  of 

her  ? 
Becket.     She  died  of  leprosy. 
John  of  Salisbiiri/.  I  know  not  why 

You  call  these  old  things  back  again,  my 

lord. 
Becket.     The  drowning  man,  they  say, 

remembers  all 
The  chances  of  his  life,  just  ere  he  dies. 
John   oj"  Salisbury.      Ay  —  but    these 


BECKET. 


749 


arm'd  men  —  will  you  drown  your, 
sel/y 
He  loses  half  the  meed  of  martyrdom 
Who  will  be  m.irtyr  wheu  he  might  es- 
cape. 
Bec/cet.    What  day  of  the  week  1   Tues- 
day 1 
Jolin  of  6'aJisl^itri/.       Tuesday,  my  lord. 
Becket.     Ou  a  Tuesday  was  1  boru,  tiud 
oil  ;i  Tuesday 
Baptized  ;  and  i>;i  a  Tue'^day  did  I  fly 
^'orth  from  Xortliamptoii ;  on  a  Tuesday 

prtss'd 
From  Kngland  into  bitter  banishment; 
Ou  a  Tuesday  at  Puntijim'  came  to  me 
Tlie  jiiiosily  warninfjj  of  my  martyrdom  ; 
On  a  Tuesday  from  mine  exile  1  returu'd. 
And  ou  a  Tuesday  — 

[Tracy  entcrx,  then  Fitzukse,  Dii 
Bkito,  and  De  Mouville.  Monks 
Jjlloivimj. 

—  on  a  Tuesday  —  Tracy  ! 

A  long  silence,  broken  by  FiTZURSii  sayimj, 

contemptuousli/, 
God  help  thee ! 
John  of  Sdlit-bury    (aside).      How    the 
good  Archbishop  reddetis  ! 
He  never  yet  could  brook  the  note  of  scorn. 
Fitzurae.    My  lord,  we  bring  a  message 
from  tile  King 
Beyond  th.;  water;  will  you  have  it  alone, 
Or  with  these  listeners  near  you  ? 

Becket.  As  you  will. 

Filznrse.     Nay,  as  you  will. 
Becket.  Nay,  as  you  will 

John  of  Salisbury.  Why  rlien 

Better  perhaps  to  speak  with  them  aj)art. 
Let  us  withdraw. 
[.4//  (JO  out  except  the  four   Knights 
and  Becket. 
Fitzurse.       We  are  all  alone  wiih  him. 
Shall  1  not  smite  him  with  his  own  cross- 
staff  ? 
De  Morville.     No,   look !    the   door   is 

open  :  let  him  be. 
Fitzurse.      The    King   condemns   your 

excommunicating  — 
Becket.     This  is  no  secret,  but  a  public 
matter, 
in  here  again  ! 

[John    of    Salisbury    a?id    Monks 

retnrr 
Now,  sirs,  the  King's  commands  ! 
Fitzurse.    The  King  beyond  the  water, 
thro'  our  voices, 


Commands  you  to  be  dutiful  and  leal 
To  your  young  King  on  this  side  of  the 

water. 
Not  scorn  him  for  the  foibles  of  bis  youth. 
What !  you  would   make  his  coronation 

void 
By  cursing  those  who  crown'd  him.     Out 

upon  you  ! 
Becket.      tiegiuald,   all    men    know   I 
I  loved  the  I'rince. 

Hi-i  father  g.ne  him  to  my  care,  and  I 
Became  his  second  father :  he    had   his 

f  uilts, 
For  which  I  would  have  laid  mine  own 

life  down 
To  help  him  from  them,  since  indeed  I 

loved  him, 
And  love   him  next  after  my    lord   his 

futher. 
Rather   than    dim   the    splendor  of    his 

crown 
I  fiiiii  would  treble  and  qu:u!ru|)le  it 
With  revenues,  realms,  and  golden  prov- 
inces 
So  that  were  done  in  equity. 

Fitzurse.  You  have  broken 

Your  bond  of  peace,  your  treaty  with  the 

King  — 
Wakening  such  brawls  and  loud  disturb- 
ances 
In  England,  thai  he  calls  you  oversea 
To  answer  for  it  in  his  Norman  courts. 
Becket.     Prate  not  of  bonds,  for  never, 

oh,  never  again 
Shall  the  waste  voice  of  the  boniJ-break. 

iug  sea 
Divide  me  from  the  mother  church  of 

England, 
My  Canterbury.     Loud  di.-lurbauces  ! 
Oh,  ay  —  the  bells  rang  out  even  to  deaf- 
ening, 
Organ  and    pipe,  and  dulcimer,   chantc 

and  hymns 
In  all  the  churches,  trumpets  in  the  ludls. 
Sobs,  laughter,  cries :   they  spread  tliei; 

raiment  <lown 
Before  me —  would  have  made  my  patli- 

wny  flowers, 
Save  that  it  was  mid-winter  in  the  street, 
But    full    mid-summer   in   those   honest 

hearts. 
Fitzurse.     The    King   commands  you 

to  absolve  the  bishops 
Whom  you  have  excommunicated. 

Becket.     1 1    Not  I,  the  Pope.    Ask  him 

for  absolution. 
Fitzurse.     But  you  advised  the  Pop3. 


750 


BECKET. 


Becket.  And  so  I  did. 

They  have  but  to  submit. 

The  Four  Knights.      The   King   com- 
mands you. 
We  are  all  King's  men. 

Becket.     King's  men   at   least  should 
know 
That  their  own  King  closed  with  me  last 

July 
That  I  should  pass  the  censures  of  the 

Church 
On  those  that  crown'd  young  Henry  in 

this  realm, 
And    trampled  on  the  rights  of  Canter- 
bury. 
Fitziirse.     What  !  dare  you  charge  the 
King  with  treachery  ? 
JRe  sanction  thee  to  excommunicate 
The  prelates  whom  he  chose  to  crown  his 
son  ! 
Becket.     I  spake  no  word  of  treachery, 
Reginald. 
But  for  the  truth  of  this  I  make  appeal 
To  all  the  archbishops,  bishops,  prelates, 

barons, 
Monks,  knights,  five  hundred,  that  were 

there  and  heard. 
Nay,  you  yourself  were  there :  you  heard 
yourself. 
Fitzurse.     I  was  not  there. 
Becket.  I  saw  you  there. 

Fitzurse.  I  was  not. 

Becket.      You    were.      I   never   forget 

anything. 
Fitzurse.     He  makes  the  King  a  trai- 
tor, me  a  liar. 
How  long  shall  we  forbear  him  ? 

John    of  Salisburi/    {drawing    Becket 
asi'de).  O  my  good  lord, 

Speak  with  them  privately  on  this  here- 
after. 
You  see  they  have  been  revelling,  and  I 

fear 
Are  braced  and  brazen'd  up  with  Christ- 
mas wines 
For  any  murderous  brawl. 

Becket.  And  yet  they  prate 

Of   mine,  my   brawls,  when    those,  that 

name  themselves 
Of  the  King's  pan,  have   broken  down 

our  barns, 
Wasted   our  diocese,  outraged   our  ten- 
ants. 
Lifted  our  produce,   driven   our   clerics 

out  — 
Why  ihey,  your  friends,  those  ruffians, 
the  De  Brocs, 


They  stood  on  Dover  beach  to  murdei 

me. 
They  slew  my  stags  in  mine  own  manoi' 

here. 
Mutilated,  poor  brute,  my  sumpter-mule, 
Plunder'd  the  vessel  full  of  Gascon  wine, 
Tlij  old  King's  present,  carried  off   the 

casks, 
KiU'd  half  the  crew,  dungeon'd  the  other 

half 
In  Pevensey  Castle  — 

De  Morville.  Why  not  rather  thenj 

If  this  be   so,  complain  to  your  young 

King, 
Not  punish  of  your  own  authority  ? 
Becket.     Mine  enemies  barr'd  all  access 
to  the  boy. 
They  knew  he  loved  me. 
Hugh,  Hugh,  how  proudly  you  exalt  your 

head  i 
Nay,   when   they   seek  to   overturn   our 

rights, 
I  ask  no  leave  of  king,  or  mortal  man. 
To  set  them  straight  again.     Alone  I  do 

it. 
Give  to  the  King  the  things  that  are  the 

King's, 
And  those  of  God  to  God. 

Fitzurse.     Threats !    threats  !   ye  hear 
him. 
What !    will  he  excommunicate  all   the 
world  ■? 

[The  Knights  come  round  Becket. 
De  Tracy.     He  shall  not. 
De  Brito.     Well,  as  yet  —  I  should  be 
grateful  — 
He  hath  not  excommunicated  me. 
Becket.    Because  thou  wast  born  excom- 
municate. 
I   never    spied    in    thee    one    gleam    of 
grace. 
De  Brito.     Your  Christian's  Christian 

charity  ! 
Becket.  By  S  t.  Denis  — 

De  Brito.     Ay,  by  St.  Denis,  now  wil] 
he  flame  out, 
And  lose  his  head  as  old  St.  Denis  did. 
Becket.     Ye   think   to  scare  me   from 
my  loyalty 
To  God  and  to  the  Holy  Father.    No! 
Tho'  all  the  swords  in  England  flashed 

above  me 
Ready  to  fall  at  Henry's  word  or  yours  — 
Tho'  all  the  loud-lung'd  trumpets  upon 

earth 
Blared  from  tlie  heights  of  all  the  thrones 
of  her  kings. 


BECKET. 


751 


Blowing  the  world  against  me,  I  would 

stand 
Clothed  with  the  full  authority  of  Rome, 
Mail'd  in  the  perfect  panoply  of  faith, 
First  of  the  foremost  of  their  files,  who  die 
For  God,  to  people  heaven  in  the  great 

day 
When  God  makes  up  his  jewels.     Once  I 

fled  — 
Never   again,   and    you  —  I    marvel   at 

you  — 
Ye  know  what  is  hetween  us.     Ye  have 

sworn 
Yourselves  my  men  when  I  was  Chan- 
cellor — 
My  vassals  — and  yet  threaten  your  Arch- 
bishop 
In  his  own  house. 

Knights.        Nothing  can  be  between  us 
That  goes  against  our  fealty  to  the  King. 
Fitzurse.     And  in  his  name  we  charge 
you  that  ye  keep 
This  traitor  from  escaping. 

Becket.  Rest  you  easy, 

For  I  am  easy  to  keep.     I  shall  not  fly. 
Here,  here,  here  will  you  find  me. 

De  Morville.  Know  you  not 

You  have  spoken  to  the  peril  of  your  lift  1 
Becket.     As  I  shall  speak  again. 
Fitzurse,  De  Tracy,  and  De  Brito.     To 

arms ! 
[They  rush  out,  De  Morville  lingers. 
Becket.  De  Morville, 

I  had  thought  so  well  of  you ;  and  even 

now 
You  seem  the  least  assassin  of  the  four. 
Oh,  do  not  damn  yourself  for  company  ! 
Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  save  your  soul  ? 
I    pray  you   for  one  moment   stay  and 
speak. 
De  Morville.     Becket,  it  is  too  late. 

[Exit. 
Becket.  Is  it  too  late  1 

Too  late  on  earth  may  be  too  soon  in  hell. 
Knights    (in   the    distance).      Close   the 
great  gate  —  ho,  there  —  upon  the 
town. 
BeckeVs  Retainers.    Shut  the  hall-doors. 
[A  pause. 
Becket.   You  hear  them,  brother  John  ; 
Why  do  you  stand  so  silent,  brother  John  ? 
John  of  Salisbury.     For  I  was  musing 
on  an  ancient  saw, 
Suaviter  in  modo,  fort  iter  in  re, 
Is  strength  less  strong  when  hand-in-hand 

with  grace  ? 
Gratior  m  pulchro  corpore  virtus.   Thomas, 


Why  should  you  heat  yourself  for  such 
as  these  ? 
Becket.     Metbought   I  answer'd   mod- 
erately enough. 
John  of  Salisbury.     As  one  that  blows 
the  coal  to  cool  the  lire. 
My  lord,  I  marvel  why  you  never  lean 
On  any  man's  advi-ing  but  your  own. 
Becket.    Is  it  so,  Dan  John  .'  well,  wha 

should  I  have  done  1 
John  of  Salisbury.     You    should    have 
taken  counsel  with  your  friends 
Before    these    bandits   brake    into   your 

presence. 
They  seek  —  you  make  —  occasion    for 
your  death. 
Becket.     My  counsel  is  already  taken, 
John. 
I  am  prepared  to  die. 

John  of  Salisbury.      We  are  sinners  all, 
The  best  of  all  not  all-prepared  to  die. 
Becket.     God's  will  be  done  ! 
John   of  Salisbury.      Ay,    well.     God's 

will  be  done  ! 
Grim  {reentering).    My  lord,  the  knights 
are  arming  in  the  garden 
Beneath  the  sycamore. 

Becket.  Good  !  let  them  arm. 

Gi'im.      And  one  of  the  De  Bmcs  ia 
with  them,  Hobert, 
The  apostate  monk  that  was  with  Ran- 

dulf  here. 
He  knows  the  twists  and  turnings  of  the 
place. 
Becket.     No  fear ! 

Grim.  No  fear,  my  lord. 

[Crashes    on    the     hall -doors.       The 

Monks  flee. 

Becket  (rising).        Our  dovecote  flown  ! 

I  cannot   tell   why  monks  should  all  be 

cowards. 

John   of  Salisbury.      Take   refuge    in 

your  own  cathedral,  Thomas. 
Becket.     Do  they  not  fight  the  Great 
Fiend  day  by  day  1 
Valor  and  holy  life  should  go  together. 
Why  should  all  monks  be  cowards  ? 

John  of  Salisbury.  Are  they  so  ■? 

I  say,  take   refuge  in  your  own  cathe- 
dral. 
Becket.     Ay,  but  I  told  them  I  would 

wait  them  here. 
Grim.      May  they  not   say  you  dared 
not  show  yourself 
In  your  old   place  1  and  vespers  are   be, 
ginning 
[Bell  rings  for  vespers  till  end  'f  scene, 


752 


BECKET. 


Tou  should  attend  the  office,  give  them 

heart. 
They  fear  you  slain  :    they  dread   they 
know  not  what. 
Becket.     Ay,  monks,  not  men. 
Grim.  I  am  a  monk,  my  lord. 

Perhaps,  my  lord,  you  wrouij-  us. 
Some  would  stand  "by  you  to  the  death. 
Becket.  Your  pardon. 

John  of  SaMsbury.     He    said    "  Attend 

the  ofRce." 
Becket.  Attend  the  office  ? 

Why  then  —  The  Cross  !  —  who  bears  my 

Cross  before  me  ? 
Methought  they  would  have  brain'd  me 
w^ith  it,  John.  [Grim  tirkes  it. 

Grim.     I  !      Would  that  I  could  bear 

thy  cross  indeed  ! 
Becket.     The  Mitre! 
John  of  Salisbury.     Will  you  wear  it'? 
—  there  ! 

[Becket  puts  on  the  mitre. 

Becket.  '  The  Pall  ! 

I  go  to  meet  my  King  !    [Puts  on  the  pall. 

Grim.  To  meet  the  King  ? 

[Crashes  on  the  doors  as  they  qo  out. 

John  of  Salisbury.     Why  do  you  move 

with  such  a  stateliness  ? 

Can  you  not  hear   them  yonder   iike  a 

storm. 
Pattering  the  doors,  and  breaking  thro' 
the  walls  ? 
Becket.      Why  do    the   heathen  rage  ? 
My  two  good  friends, 
What  matters  murder'd  here,  or  murder'd 

there  ? 
And  yet  my  dream  foretold  my  martyr- 
dom 
In  mine  own   church.     It  is  God's  will. 

Go  on. 
Nay,  drag  me  not.    We  must  not  seem  to 

fly- 

Scene  III.  —  North  Transept  of  Can- 
terbury Cathedral.  On  the  right  hand 
a  fliqht  of  steps  leading  to  the  Choir, 
another  flight  on  the  left,  leading  to  the 
North  Aisle.  Winter  afternoon  slowly 
darkening.  Low  thunder  now  and  then 
of  an  approaching  storm.  Monks 
heard  chanting  the  service.  Kosa- 
MUND  kneeling. 

Eosamund.     0  blessed  siiint,  O  glorious 
Benedict,  — 
These  arm'd  men  in  the  city,  these  fierce 

faces  — 
Thy  holy  follower  founded  Canterbury  — 


Save  that  dear  head  which  now  is  Can- 
terbury, 
Save  him,  he  saved  my  life,  he  saved  my 

child, 
Save  him,  his  blood  would  darken  Henry's 

name  ; 
Save  him  till  all  as  saintly  as  thyself 
He  miss  the  searching  flame  of  purgatory. 
And  pass  at  once  perfect  to  Paradise. 

[.Vo/se  of  steps  and  voices  in  the  cloisters. 
Hark!     Is  it  they  1    Coming!     He  is  not 

here  — 
Not  yet,  thank  Heaven.     O  save  him  ! 

[Goes  up  steps  leading  to  choir. 
Becket  {entering,  forced  along  6(/ John  of 
Salisbury  and  Grim).    No,  I  tell 
you  ! 
I  cannot  bear  a  hand  upon  my  person, 
Whv  do  vou  force  me  thus  against  my 
will  1 
Grim.     My  lord,  we   force   you   from 

your  enemies. 
Becket.      As  you  would   force  a  king 

from  being  crown'd. 
John  of  Salisbury.     We  must  not  force 

the  crown  of  martyrdom. 
[Sei'vice  stops.     Monks  come  doion  from 

the  stairs  that  lead  to  the  choir. 
Monks.     Here  is  the  great  Archbishop ! 
He  lives  !  he  lives  ! 
Die  with  him,  and  be  glorified  together. 
Becket.    'together  ?  .  .  .  get  you  back  ! 

go  on  with  the  office. 
Monks.  Come,  then,  with  us  to  vespers. 
Becket.  How  can  I  come 

When  you  so  block  the  entry  ?     Back,  I 

say! 
Go  on  with  the  office.     Shall  not  Heaven 

be  served 
Tho'  earth's  last  eartjiqnake  clash'd  the 

minster-bells. 
And    the   great   deeps   were   broken    up 

again. 
And  hiss'd  against  the  sun  ? 

[xVo/se  in  the  cloisters. 
Monks.  The  murderers,  hark! 

Let  us  hide  !   let  us  hide  ! 

Becket.         What  do  these  people  fear? 
Monks.     Those  arrn'd  men  in  the  clois- 
ter. 
Becket.         Be  not  such  cravens  ! 
I  will  go  out  and  meet  them. 

Grim  and  others.  Shut  the  doors'. 

We  will  not   have  him  slain  before  our 

face. 

[They   close   the    doois   of  the   transept. 

Knocking. 


BECKET. 


753 


Fly,  fly,  my  lord,  before  they  burst  the 
doors  '  [Knocking. 

Becket.     Wh\',    these    are    our    owu 
monks  wlio  follow'd  us  ! 
.And  will  you  bolt  them  out,  and   have 
them  slain  ? 
Undo  the  doors  :  the  church  is  not  a  cas- 
tle : 
Knock,  and  it  shall  be  open'd.     Are  you 

deaf  ? 
What,    have    I    lost    authority    among 

you "? 
Stand  by,  make  way  ! 

\_Opens  the  doors.     Enter  Monks _/5o/n 
cloister. 
Come  in,  my  friends,  come  iu  ! 
Nay,  faster,  faster  ! 

Monks.  Oh,  my  lord  Archbishop, 

A  score  of  knights  all  arm'd  with  swords 

and  axes  — 
To  the  choir,  to  the  choir ! 

[Monks  divide,  partjlt/ing  hy  the  stairs 
on  the  right,  part  bij  those  on  the 
left.  The  rush  of  these  last  bears 
Becket  along  with  them  some  way 
lip  the  steps,  where  he  is  left  stand- 
ing alone. 

Becket.       Shall  I  too  pass  to  the  choir. 
And  die  upon  the  patriarchal  throue 
Of  all  my  predecessors  1 

John  of  Salisbury.  No,  to  the  crypt ! 

Twenty  steps  down.     Stumble  not  in  ttie 

darkness. 
Lest  they  should  seize  thee. 

Grim.  To  the  crypt  7  no —  no. 

To  the  chapel  of  St.  Blaise  beneath  the 

roof  ! 
John  of  Salisbwy   (pointing  upivard  and 

downward).     That    way,   or  this! 

Save  thy.self  either  way. 
Becket.      Oh,  no,  not  either  way,  nor 

any  way 
Save  by  that  way  which  leads  thro'  night 

to  light. 
Not  twenty  steps,  but  one. 
And  fear  not   I    should    stumble   in    the 

darkness, 
Not  tho'  it   be    their  hour,  the  power  of 

darkness, 
But  my  hour  too,  the  power  of  light  in 

darkness ! 
I  am  not  in  the  darkness  but  the  light, 
Seen    by   the    Church    in    Heaven,    the 

Church  on  earth  — 
The  power  of  life  in  death  to  make  her 

free  1 

48 


[Enter  the  four   Knights.      John   of 
Salisbury  flies  to  the  altar  uf  St, 
Benedict. 
Fitzurse.     Here,  here,  King's  men  ! 
[Catches  hold  of  the  lastjiying  Monk. 
Where  is  the  traitor  Becket  ? 
Monk.     I  am  not  he !    I  am  not  he,  my 
lord. 
I  am  not  he  indeed  ! 

Fitzurse.  Hence  to  the  fiend  : 

[flushes  him  away. 

Where  is  this  treble  traitor  to  the  King  ' 

De  Tracy.     Where  is  the  Archbishop, 

Thomas  Becket  ? 
Becket.  Here. 

No  traitor  to  the  King,  but  Priest  of  God, 
Primate  of  England. 

[Descending  into  the  transept. 
I  am  he  ye  seek, 
What  would  ye  have  of  me  ? 
Fitzurse.  Your  life. 

De  Tracy.  Your  life. 

De  Morville.     Save   that  you   will  ab- 
solve the  bishops. 
Becket.  Never,  — 

Except    thcv   make   submission    to    the 

Church. 
You  had  my  answer  to  that  cry  before. 
De   Morville.     Why,   then   you   are   a 

dead  man ;  flee ! 
Becket.  I  will  not. 

I  am  readier  to  be  slain,  than  thou  to  slay. 
Hugh,  I  know  well  thou  hast  but  halfa 

heart 
To  bathe  this  .sacred  pavement  with  my 

blood. 
God  pardon  thee  and  these,  but  God's  full 

curse 
Shatter  you  all  to  pieces  if  ye  harm 
One  of  my  flock  ! 

Ftlznrse.    Was  not  the  great  gate  shut  ? 
They  are  thronging  in  to  vespers —  half 

the  town. 
We  shall  be  overwhelm'd.    Seize  him  and 

carry  him  ! 
Come  with  us  —  nay  —  thou  art  our  pris 
oner  —  come  ! 
De  Morville.     Ay,  make  him  prisoner, 

do  not  harm  the  man. 
[Fitzurse    lays    hold    of   the    Arch- 
bishop's pall, 
Becket.     Touch  me  not ! 
De  Brito.     How  the  good  priest  gods 
himself ! 
He  is  not  yet  a.^cended  to  the  Father. 
Fitzurse.     I    will    not   only  touch,   but 
drag  thee  hence. 


154 


BECKET. 


Becket.     Thou  art   my  man,  thou   art 

my  vassal.     Away  ! 

[Flings  him  off  till  he  reels,  almost  to 

falling. 

De  Tracy  {lays  hold  of  the  pall).    Come  ; 

as  he  said,  thou  art  our  prisoner. 
Bechet.  Down  ! 

\llirou-s  him  headlong. 
Fitzurse  (advances  with  drawn  sword).    I 
told  thee  that  I  should  remember 
thee  ! 
Becket.     Profligate  pander  ! 
Fitzurse.     Do  you  liear  that  1     strike, 
strike  ! 
[Strikes  off  the  Archbishop's  mitre, 
arid  ivounds  him  in  the  forehead . 
Becket  (covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand).    I 
do  commend  my  cause  to  God,  the 
Virgin, 
St  Denis  of  France  and  St.  Alphege  of 

England, 
And  all  the  tutelar  Saints  of  Canterbury. 
[Grim  loraps  his  arms  about  the  Arch- 
bishop. 
Spare  this  defence,  dear  brother. 

[Tracy   h(ts  arisen,  and  approaches, 

hesitatingly,  loilh  his  sword  raised. 

Fitzurse.  Strike  liim,  Tracy  ! 

Rosamund  (rushing  down  steps  frow  the 

choir).     No,  No,  No,  No  ! 
Fitzurse.     This  wanton  here.    De  Mor- 
ville. 
Hold  her  away. 
De  Morvitle'.  I  lioid  her. 

Rosamund  (held  back  by  De  Morville, 
and  stretching  out  her  arms ) .    Mercy, 
mercy, 
As  you  would  hope  for  mercy. 

Fitzurse.  Strike,  I  say. 

Grim.     0    God,   O   noble   knights,    O 
sacrilege ! 
Strike  our  Archbishop  in  his  own  cathe- 
dral 1 


The  Pope,  the  King,  will  curse  you  —  the 

whole  world 

Abhor  you  ;  ye  will  die  the  death  of  dogs  I 

Nay,  nay,  good  Ti'acy.         [Lifts  his  arm. 

Fitzurse.  Answer  not,  but  strike. 

De  Tracy.     There  is  my  answer  then. 

[Stvord  falls  on    Grim's    arm,  and 

glances  from  it,  wounding  Becket. 

Grim.  Mine  arm  is  sever'd. 

I  can  no  more  —  fight  out  the  good  fight 

—  die 
Conqueror. 

[Staggers  into  the  chapel  of  St.  Bene- 
dict. 
Becket  (falling  on  his  knees).      At  the 
right  hand  of  Power  — 
Power  and  great  glory  —  for  thy  Church, 

O  Lord  — 
Into    Thy    hands,  O    Lord  —  into  Thy 
hands  !  —  [Sinks  pi-one. 

De  Brito.      This  last  to  rid  thee  of  a 
world  of  brawls  !  [Kills  him. 

The   traitor  's  dead,  and    will  arise   no 
more. 
Fitzurse.     Nay,   have  we  still'd    him  ? 
What !  the  great  Archbishop  ! 
Does  he  breathe  1     No  ? 

De  Tracy.       No,  Reginald,  he  is  dead. 

(Storm  bursts.)* 

De  Morville.     Will  the  earth  gape  and 

swallow  us  ^ 
De  Brito.  The  deed  's  done  — 

Away  ! 

[De  Brito,  De  Tracy,  Fitzurse, 
rush  out,  crying  "  King's  men  ! " 
De  Morville  follows  slowly. 
Flashes  of  lightning  thro'  the  Cathe- 
dral. Rosamund  seen  kneeling  by 
the  body  o/ Becket. 

*A  trftnendoux  thunderstorm  actvallybrolce  ovO'i 
the  Cathedral  as  the  murderers  were  leaving  it. 


LOCKSLEY   HALL  SIXTV  YEAKS   AFTER. 


755 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SL\TY  YEARS  AFTER. 


Late,  my  grandson  !  half  the  morning 
have  1  paced  these  sandy  tracts, 

Watch'd  again  the  hollow  ridges  roaring 
into  cataracts, 

Wander'd  hack  to  living  boyhood  while  I 
I  heard  the  cnrlews  call, 

I  myself  so  close  on  death,  and  death  it- 
self in  Locksley  Hall. 

So  —  your  happy  suit  was  blasted  —  she 

the  faultless,  the  divine  ; 
And   you  liken  —  boyish    babble — this 

boy-love  of  yours  with  mine. 

I  myself  have  often  babbled  doubtless  of 

a  foolish  past ; 
Babble,  babble ;  our  old  England  m.a}'  go 

down  in  babble  at  last. 

'  Curse  him  !  "  curse  your  fellow-victim  ' 
call  him  dotard  in  your  rage? 

Eyes  that  lured  a  doting  boyhood  well 
might  fool  a  dotard's  age. 

Jilted  for  a  wealthier  !  wealthier?  yet  per- 
haps she  was  not  wise  ; 

I  remember  how  you  kiss'd  the  miniature 
with  those  sweet  eyes. 

In  the  hall  there  hangs  a  painting  — 
Amy's  arms  about  my  neck  — 

Happy  children  in  a  sunbeam  sitting  on 
the  ribs  of  wreck. 

In  my  life  there  was  a  picture,  she  that 
clasp'd  my  neck  had  flown  ; 

I  was  left  within  the  shadow  sitting  on 
the  wreck  alone. 

Yours  has  been  a  slighter  ailment,  will 
you  sicken  for  her  sake  ? 

You,  not  you  !  your  modern  amourist  is 
of  easier,  earthlier  make. 

Amy  loved  me.  Amy  fail'd  me,  Atny  was 

a  timid  child ; 
But  your  Judith  —  but  your  worldhng  — 

she  had  never  driven  me  wild 


She  that  holds  the  diamond  necklace 
dearer  than  the  golden  ring. 

She  that  finds  a  winter  sunset  fairer  that 
a  morn  of  Spring. 

She  that  in  her  heart  is  brooding  on  his 

briefer  lea-e  of  life, 
While  she  vows  "  till  death  shall  part  us/' 

she  the  would-be-widow  wife. 

She  the  worldling  born  of  wcrldlings  — 
father,  mother  —  be  content, 

Ev'n  the  homely  farm  can  teach  us  there 
is  something  in  descent. 

Yonder  in  that  chapel,  slowly  sinking  now 

into  the  ground. 
Lies  the  warrioi-,  my  forefather,  with  his 

feet  upon  the  hound. 

Cross'd !  for  once  he  sail'd  the  sea  to 
crush  the  Moslem  in  his  piide ; 

Dead  the  wariior,  dead  his  glory,  dead 
the  cause  in  which  he  died. 

Yet  how  often  I  and  Amy  in  the  moulder- 
ing aisle  have  stood. 

Gazing  for  one  ])eusive  moment  on  that 
founder  of  our  blood. 

There  again  I  stood  today,  and  where  of 

old  we  knelt  in  prayer. 
Close  beneath  the  casement  crimson  with 

the  shield  of  Locksley  —  there^ 

All  in  white  Italian  marble,  looking  still 

as  if  she  smiled. 
Lies  my   Amy  dead  in  child-birth,  dead 

the  mother,  dead  the  child. 

Dead  —  and  sixty  years  ago,  and  dead 

her  aged  husband  now, 
I  this   old  white-headed   dreamer  stoopt 

and  kiss'd  her  marble  brow. 

Gone  the  fires  of  youth,  the  follies,  furies, 

curses,  passionate  tears, 
Gone  like  fires  and  floods  and  earthquakes 

of  the  planet's  dawning  years 


756 


LOCKSLEY    HALL   SIXTY   YEARS   AFTER. 


Fires   that  shook   me  once,  but   now  to 

silent  ashes  tiiU'u  away. 
Cold  upon  the  dead   volcano  sleeps  the 

gleam  of  dying  day. 

Gone  the  tyrant  of  my  youth,  and  mute 
below  the  chancel  stones, 

All  his  virtues  —  I  forgive  them  —  black 
in  white  above  his  bones. 

Gone  the  comrades  of  my  bivouac,  some 

in  tight  against  the  foe. 
Some  thro'  age  and  slow  diseases,  gone  as 

all  on  earth  will  go. 

Gone  with  whom  for  forty  years  my  life 

in  golden  se(iuence  rau. 
She  with   all  the  charm  of  woman,  she 

with  all  the  breadth  of  man. 

Strong  in  will  and  rich  in  wisdom,  Edith, 
loyal,  lowly,  sweet, 

Feminine  to  her  inmost  heart,  and  femi- 
nine to  her  lender  feet. 

Very   woman    of   very    woman,  nurse  of 

ailing  body  and  mind, 
She  that  link'd  again  the  broken  chain 

ihat  bound  me  to  my  kind. 

Here  to-day  was  Amy  with  me,  while  I 
wander'd  down  the  coast, 

Near  us  Edith's  holy  shadow,  smiling  at 
the  .slighter  ghost. 

Gone  our  sailor  son  thy  father,  Leonard 

early  lost  at  sea ; 
Thou  alone,  my  boy,  of  Amy's  kin  and 

mine  art  left  to  me. 

Gone  thy  tender-natured  mother,  weary- 
ing to  be  left  alone. 

Pining  for  the  stronger  heart  that  once 
had  beat  beside  her  own. 

Truth,  for  Truth  is  Truth,  he  worshipt, 
being  true  as  he  was  brave  ; 

Good,  for  Good  is  Good,  he  foUow'd,  yet 
he  look'd  beyond  the  grave. 

Wiser  there  than  you,  that  crowning  bar- 
ren Death  as  lord  of  all, 

Deem  this  over-tragic  drama's  closing 
curtain  is  the  pall ! 

Beautiful  was  death  in  him  who  saw  the 
the  death  but  kept  the  deck, 


Saving  women  and  their  babes,  and  sink- 
ing with  the  sinking  wreck, 

Gone  for  ever  !      Ever  1   no  —  for  since 

our  dying  race  began. 
Ever,  ever,  and  for  ever  was  the  leading 

light  of  man. 

Those  that  in  barljarian  burialf  kill'd  the 

slave,  and  slew  the  wife, 
Felt  within  themselves  the  sacred  passion 

of  the  second  life. 

Indian  warriors  dream  of  ampler  hunting 
grounds  beyond  the  night ; 

Ev'n  the  black  Australian  dying  hopes 
he  shall  return,  a  white. 

Truth  for  truth,  and  good  for  good  !  The 
Good,  the  True,  the  Pure,  the  Just; 

Take  the  charm  "  For  ever  "  from  them, 
and  they  crumble  iuio  dust. 

Gone  the  cry  of  "  Forward,  Forward," 
lost  within  a  growing  gloom  ; 

Lost,  or  only  heard  in  silence  from  the 
silence  of  a  tomb. 

Half  the  marvels  of  my  morning,  triumphs 

over  time  and  space, 
Staled   by   frequence,    shrunk    by    usage 

into  commonest  commonplace ! 

"  Forward  "  rang  the  voices  then,  and  of 

the  many  mine  was  one. 
Let  us  hush  this  cry  of  "  Forward  "  till 

ten  thousand  years  have  gone. 

Far  among  the  vanish'd  races,  old  Assyr- 
ian kings  would  flay 

Captives  whom  they  caught  in  battle  — 
iron-hearted  victors  they. 

Ages  after,  while  in  Asia,  he  that  led  thi 

wild  Moguls, 
Timur  built  his  ghastly  tower  of  eighty 

thousand  human  skulls. 

Then,  and  here  in  Edward's  time,  an  agt 
of  noblest  English  names. 

Christian  conquerors  took  and  flung  the 
conquer'd  Christian  into  tlames. 

Love  your  enemy,  bless  your  haters,  said 
the  Greatest  of  the  great ; 

Christian  love  among  the  Churches  look'd 
the  twin  of  heathen  hate. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL  SIXTY   YEARS   AFTER. 


767 


From  the  golden  alms  ot   Blessing  man  I  Envy  wears  the  mask  of  Love,  and,  laugh- 
liad  coiu'd  himself  a  curse  :  |  jng  sober  fact  to  scoru, 


Rome  of  Ci«sar,  Home  of  Peter,  which 
was  crueller  ?  which  was  worse  ''■ 

France  had  shown  a.  light  to  all  men, 
preach'd  a  Gospel,  all  men's  good  ; 

Celtic  Demos  rose  a  Demon,  shriek'd  and 
slaked  the  light  with  blood. 

Hope  was  ever  on  her  mountain,  watching 

till  the  day  begun 
Crown'd  with  sunlight  —  over  darkness  — 

from  the  still  unrisen  sun. 

Have  we  grown  at  last  beyond  the  pas- 
sion of  the  primal  clan  ? 

"  Kill  your  enemy,  for  you  hate  him,' 
still,  "  your  enemy  "  was  a  man. 

Have  we  sunk  below  thenk  ?  peasants 
maim  the  helpless  horse,  and  drive 

Innocent  cattle  under  thatch,  and  burn 
the  kindlier  brutes  alive. 

Brutes,  the  brutes  are  not  your  wrongers 
—  burnt  at  midnight,  found  at 
morn, 

Twisted  hard  in  mortal  agony  with  their 
offspring,  born-unborn. 

Clinging  to  the  silent  Mother !     Are  we 

devils  ?  are  we  men  ? 
Sweet  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  would  that 

he  were  here  again, 

He  that  in  his  Catholic  wholeness  used  to 

call  the  very  flowers 
Sisters,    brothers  —  and    the    beasts  — 

whose  pains  are  hardly  less  than 

ours  ! 

Chaos,  Cosmos  !  Cosmos,  Chaos !  who  can 

tell  how  all  will  end  ! 
Read  the  wide   world's   annals,  you,  and 

take  their  wisdom  for  your  friend. 

Hope  the  best,  but  hold  the  Present  fatal 

daughter  of  the  Past, 
Shape    your    heart    to    front    the    hour, 

but  dream  not  that  the  hour  will 

last. 

Ay,  if  dynamite  and  revolver  leave  you 

courage  to  be  wise  : 
When  was  age  so  cramm'd  with  menace  1 

madness'?  written,  spoken  lies  ? 


Cries  to  Weakest  as  to  Strongest, 
are  equals,  equal-born." 


Ye 


Equal-born  1     O   yes,   if   yonder  hill   be 

level  with  the  flat. 
Charm  us.  Orator,  till  the  Lion  look  nc 

larger  than  the  Cat. 

Till  the  Cat  thro'  that  mirage  of  over- 
heated language  loom 

Larger  than  the  Lion, — Demos  end  ic 
working  its  own  doom. 

Russia  bursts  our  Indian  barrier,  shall  we 
fight  her  1  shall  we  yield  ? 

Pause,  before  you  sound  the  trumjjet,  hear 
the  voices  from  the  field. 

Those  three  hundred  millions  under  one 

Imperial  sceptre  now. 
Shall  we  hold  tlieni  1  shall  we  loose  them  ? 

take  the  suffrage  of  the  ])low. 

Nay,  but  these  would  feel  and  follow 
Tiuth  if  only  you  and  you, 

Rivals  of  realm-ruining  party,  when  you 
speak  were  wholly  true. 

Plowmen,  Shepherds,  have  I  found,  and 
more  than  once,  and  still  could  find. 

Sons  of  God,  and  kings  of  men  in  utter 
nobleness  of  mind. 

Truthful,  trustful,  looking  upward  to  the 

practised  hustings-liar ; 
So  the  Higher  wields  the  Lower,  while 

the  Lower  is  the  Higher. 

Here  and  there  a  cotter's  babe,  is  royal- 
born  by  right  divine  ; 

Here  and  there  my  lord  is  lower  than  his 
o.Kcn  or  his  swine. 

Chaos,  Cosmos !  Cosmos,  Chaos !  once 
again  the  sickening  game  ; 

Freedom,  free  to  slay  herself,  and  dying 
while  they  shout  her  name. 

Step  by  step  we  gain'd  a  freedom  known 
to  Europe,  known  to  all  ; 

Step  by  step  we  rose  to  greatness,  —  thro' 
the  tonguesters  we  may  fall. 

You  that  woo  the  Voices —  tell  them  "  old 
experience  is  a  fool," 


758 


LOCKSLEY   HALL   SIXTY   YEARS  AFTER. 


Teach  your  flattered  kings  that  only  those 
who  cannot  read  can  rule. 

Pluck  the  miglity  from  their  seat,  but  set 
no  meek  ones  in  their  place  ; 

Pillory  Wisdom  in  your  markets  pelt  your 
offal  at  her  face. 

Tumble  Nature  heel  o'er  head,  and,  yell- 
ing with  the  yelling  street, 

Set  the  feet  above  the  brain  and  swear 
the  brain  is  in  the  feet. 

Bring  the  old  dark  ages  back  without  the 

faitii,  without  the  liope. 
Break  the  State,  the  Ciuirch,  the  Throne, 

and  roll  their  ruins  down  the  slope. 

Authors  —  atheist,  essayist,  noveli.st,  real- 
ist, rhymester,  play  your  part, 

Paint  the  mortal  shame  of  Nature  with  tiie 
living  hues  of  Art. 

Rip  your  brothers'  vices  open,  strip  your 
own  foul  passions  bare  ; 

Down  with  Keticence,  down  with  Rever- 
ence— forward  —  naked  —  let  them 
stare. 

Feed  the  budding  rose  of  boyhood  with 
the  drainage  of  your  sewer  ; 

Send  tiie  drain  into  the  fountain,  lest  the 
stream  should  issue  pure. 

Set  the  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the 

troughs  of  Zolaism,  — 
Forward,    forward,    ay    and    backward, 

downward  too  into  the  abysm. 

Do  your  best  to  charm  the  worst,  to  lower 

the  rising  race  of  men  ; 
Have  we  risen  from  out  the  beast,  then 

back  into  beast  again  ? 

Only  "dust  to  dust "  forme  that  sicken 

at  your  lawless  din, 
Dust  in  wholesome  old-world  dust  before 

the  newer  world  begin. 

Heated  am  I  ?  you  —  you  wonder  —  well, 
it  scarce  becomes  mine  age  — 

Patience !  let  the  dying  actor  mouth  his 
last  upon  the  stage. 

Cries  of  unprogressive  dotage  ere  the  dot- 
ard fall  asleep  1 


Noises  of  a  current  narrowing,  not  the 
music  of  a  deep  1 

Ay,  for  doubtless  I  am  old,  and  think 
gray  thoughts,  for  I  am  gray  ; 

After  all  the  stormy  changes  shall  we  find 
a  changeless  May  " 

After  madness,  after  massacre,  Jacobir 

ism  and  Jacquerie, 
Some  diviner  force  to  guide  ui  thro'  the 

days  I  shall  not  see  ? 

When  the  schemes  and  all  the  systems. 
Kingdoms  and  Ke)niblics  fall. 

Something  kindlier,  higher,  liolier-^all 
for  each  and  each  for  all  7 

All  the  full-brain  half-brain  races,  led  by 
Justice,  Love,  and  Truth  ; 

All  the  millions  one  at  length,  with  all  the 
visions  of  my  youth  ? 

All  diseases  quench'd  by  Science,  no  man 

halt,  or  deaf,  or  blind  ; 
Stronger  ever  born  of  weaker,  lustier  body, 

larger  mind  ? 

Earth  at  last  a  warless  world,  a  single 

race,  a  single  tongue, 
I  have   seen  her  far  away — for  is  not 

Earth  as  yet  so  young  ?  — 

Every  tiger  madness  muzzled,  every  ser- 
pent passion  kill'd, 

Every  grim  ravine  a  garden,  every  blaz- 
ing desert  till'd. 

Robed  in  universal  hai-vest  up  to  either 

pole  she  smiles, 
Universal   ocean   softly  washing  all  her 

warless  Isles. 

Warless  ?  when  her  tens   are  thousands 
and  her  thousands  millions,  then- 
All  her  harvest  all  too  narrow  —  who  ca' 
fancy  warless  men  ? 

Warless  1  war  will  die  out  late  then. 
Will  it  ever?  late  or  soon  ? 

Can  it,  till  this  outworn  earth  be  dead  as 
yo-ii  dead  world  the  moon  1 

Dead  the  new  astronomy  calls  her.  ,  . . 

On  this  day  and  at  this  hour. 
In  this  gap  between  the  .sandhills,  whence 

you  see  the  Locksley  tower, 


LOCKSLEY    HALL   SIXTY   YEARS   AFTER. 


759 


Here  we  met  our  latest  meeting  —  Amy 

—  sixty  years  aj^o  — 
She  and  I  —  the  luoon  was  falling  green- 

isli  thro'  a  rosy  glow, 

Just  above  the  gateway  tower,  and  even 
where  you  see  lier  now  — 

Here  we  stood  and  claspr  each  otlier,  swore 
the  seeming-deathless  vow.  .  .  . 

Dead,  but  how  her  living  glory  lights  the 
hall,  the  dune,  the  grass ! 

Yet  the  moonlight  is  the  sunlight,  and  the 
sun  liimself  will  puss. 

Venus  near  her !  smiling  downward  at 
this  earthiier  eartii  of  ours, 

Closer  on  the  Sun,  perhaps  a  world  of 
never  fading  (lowers. 

Hesper,  wliom  the  poet  call'd  the  Bringer 

home  of  all  gooil  things. 
All   good   things  may  move   in   Hesper, 

perfect  peoples,  perfect  kings. 

Hesper  —  Venus  —  were  we  native  to 
that  splendor,  or  in  Mars, 

We  should  see  the  Globe  we  groan  in, 
fairest  of  their  evening  stars. 

Could  we  dream  of  wars  and  carnage, 
craft  and  madness,  lust  and  spite, 

Roaring  London,  ravin^r  Paris,  in  that 
point  of  peaceful  light  ? 

Might  we  not  in  glancing  heavenward  on 

a  star  so  silver-fair, 
•Yearn,  and  clasp  the  hands  and  murmur, 

"  Would    to    God    that    we    were 

there  "  ? 

Forward,  backward,   backward,  forward, 

in  the  iinnicnsnrabie  sea, 
Sway'd  by  vaster  ei)bs  and  flows  than  can 

be  known  to  voii  or  me. 


Evolution  ever  climbing  after  some  ideal 

good. 
And  Reversion  ever  dragging  Evolution 

iu  the  mud. 

What  arc  men  that  He  should  heed  us  ? 

cried  the  king  of  sacred  song  ; 
Insects  of  an  hour,  that  hourly  work  their 

brother  insect  wrong, 

While  the  silent  Heavens  roll,  and  Suns 

along  their  fiery  way. 
All  their   planets  whirling  round  tliem,. 

flash  a  million  miles  a  day. 

Many  an  JEoa  moulded  earth  before  her 

highest,  man,  was  born, 
Many  an  JEon  too  may  pass  when  earth  is 

manless  and  forlorn. 

Earth  so  huge  and  yet  so  bounded  —  pools 
of  salt,  and  plots  of  land  — 

Shallow  skin  of  green  and  azure  —  chains 
of  mountain,  grains  of  sand  ! 

Only  That  which  made  us,meaut  us  to  be 

mightier  by  and  by, 
Set  the  sphere  of  all  the  boundless  Heav- 

ens  within  the  human  eye, 

Sent  the  sliadow  of  Himself,  the  bound- 
less, thro'  the  linman  soul, 

Boundless  inward,  in  the  atom,  boundless 
outward,  in  the  Whole. 

Here  is  Locksley  Hall,  m)' grandson,  here 
the  lion-guarded  gate. 

Not  to-niglit  in  Locksley  Hall  —  to-mor- 
row —  you,  you  come  so  late. 

Wrcck'd  —  your  train  —  or  all  but 
wreck'd  ?  a  shattered  wheel  ?  a  vi- 
cious boy ! 

Good,  this  forward  you  that  preach  it,  is 
it  well  to  wish  you  joy    ? 


All  the  suns — are  these  but  .symbols  of  '  Is  it  well  that  while  we  range  with  Sci- 
innumerable  man,  i  ence,  glorying  in  the  Time, 

Man  or  Mind  tliat  sees  a  shadow  of  the  !  City  children  soak  and  blacken  soul  and 
planner  or  the  plan  ?  sense  in  city  slime  ? 


Is  there  evil  but  on  earth  ?  or  pain  in 
every  peopled  sphere  ? 

Well  be  grateful  for  the  sounding  watch- 
word, "Evolution"  here 


There  among  the  glooming  alleys  Prog- 
ress halts  on  palsied  feet. 

Crime  and  hunger  cast  our  maidens  by 
the  thousand  on  the  street. 


760 


LOCKSLEY  HALL   SIXTY   YEARS   AFTER. 


There  the  Master  scrimps  his  haggard 
sempstress  of  her  daily  bread, 

There  a  single  sordid  attic  holds  the  liv- 
ing aud  the  dead. 

There  the  smouldering  fire  of  fever  creeps 

across  the  rotted  floor. 
And  the  crowded  conch  of  incest  in  the 

warrens  of  the  poor. 

Naj;  your  pardon,  cry  yaur  "  forward," 
yours  are  hope  and  youth,  but  I  — 

Eighty  winters  leave  the  dog  too  lame  to 
follow  witli  the  cry, 

Lame  and  old,  and  past  his  time,  and  pass- 
ing now  into  the  uigiit ; 

Yet  I  would  the  rising  race  were  half  as 
eager  for  the  light. 

Light  the  fading  gleam  of  Even*  light 
the  glimmer  of  the  dawn  ? 

Aged  eyes  mry  take  the  growing  glimmer 
for  the  gleam  witlidrawn. 

Far   aw.ay   beyond    her   myriad    coming 

clianges  earlh  will  be 
Something  other  than  the  wildest  modern 

guess  of  you  and  me. 

Earth  may  reach  her  earthly-worst,  or  if 
she  gain  her  earihl^'-best, 

Would  she  find  her  human  offspring  this 
ideal  man  at  rest  ? 

Forward  then,  but  still  remember  how 
the  course  of  Time  will  swerve, 

CiX)ok  and  turn  upon  itself  in  many  a 
backward  streaming  curve. 

Not  the    Hall    to-night,   my   grandson ! 

Death  and  Silence  hold  their  own. 
Leave  the  Master  in  the  first  dark  hour 

of  his  last  sleep  alone. 

Worthier  soul  was  he  than  I  am,  sound 
aud  honest,  rustic  Squire, 

Kindly  landlord,  boon  companion — youth- 
ful jealousy  is  a  liar. 

Cast  the  poison  from  your  bosom,  onst 
the  madness  from  your  brain. 

Let  the  trampled  serpent  show  you  that 
you  have  not  lived  in  vain. 

Youthful !  youth  and  age  are  scholars  yet 
but  in  the  lower  schooJi, 


Nor  is  he  the  wisest  man  who  never  proved 
himself  a  fool. 

Yonder  lies  our  young  sea-village  —  Art 
and  Grace  are  less  and  less  : 

Science  grows  and  Beauty  dwindles  — 
roofs  of  slated  hideousncss  ! 

There  is  one  old  Hostel  left  us  v.  here  they 
swing  the  Locksley  shield. 

Till  the  peasant  cow  shall  butt  the  "  Liot. 
passant  "  from  his  field. 

Poor  old  Heraldry,  poor  old  History,  poor 
old  Poetry,  passing  hence, 

In  the  common  deluge  drowning  old  polit- 
ical common-sense ! 

*Poor  old   voice  of  eighty   crying    after 

voices  that  have  fled  ! 
All  I  loved  are  vanish'd   voices  all  my 

steps  are  on  the  dead. 

All  the  world  is  ghost  to  me,  and  as  the 

phantom  disap])ears. 
Forward  far  and  far  from  here  is  all  the 

hope  of  eighty  years. 

In  tliis  Hostel  —  I  remember — I  repent 

it  o'er  his  grave  — 
Like  a  clown  —  by  chance  he  met  me  — 

I  refused  the  hand  he  gave. 

From  that  casement  where  the  trailer  man- 
tles all  the  mouldering  bricks  — 

I  was  then  in  early  boyhood,  Edith  but  a 
child  of  si.x  — 

While  I  shelter'd  in  this  archway  from  a 

day  of  driving  showers  — 
Peept  the  winsome  face  of  Edith  like  a 
flower  among  the  flowers. 

Here  to-night !  the  Hall  to-morrow,  when 
tliey  toU  the  Chapel  bell ! 

Shall  I  hear  in  one  dark  room  a  wailing, 
"  I  have  loved  thee  well." 

Then  a  peal  that  shakes  the  portal  —  one 
lias  come  to  claim  his  bride. 

Her  that  shrank,  and  put  me  from  her. 
shriek'd,  and  started  from  my 
side  — 

Silent  echoes !  you,  my  Leonard,  use  and 
not  abuse  your  day, 


THE   FLEET. 


761 


Move  amonp:  your  people,  know  them, 
follow  him  who  led  the  way, 

Strove  for  sixty  widow'd  years  to  help 
Ills  homciier  brother  men. 

Served  the  poor,  and  built  the  cottage, 
raised  the  school,  and  drain'd  the 
fen. 

Hears  he  now  the  Voice  that  wrong'd 
him  ?  who  shall  swear  it  cannot 
be?  " 

Earth  would  never  touch  her  worst,  were 
one  in  fifty  such  as  he. 

Ere  she  gain  her  Heavenly-best,  a  God 
must  mingle  with  the  game: 

Nay,  there  may  be  those  about  us  whom 
we  neither  see  nor  name, 

Felt  within  us  as  ourselves,  the  Powers 

of  Good,  the  Powers  of  111, 
Strowing  balm,  or  shcddiviir  poison  in  the 
fountains  of  the  Will. 

Follow  you  the  Star  that  lights  a  desert 

pathway,  yours  or  mine. 
Forv.-ard,  till  you  see  the  highest  Human 

Nature  is  divine. 

Follow  Light,  and  do  the  Right  —  for 
man  can  half  control  his  doom  — 

Till  you  find  tiie  deathless  Angel  seated 
in  the  vacant  tomb. 

Forward,  let  the  stormy  moment  fl.v  and 

mingle  with  the  Past. 
I  that  loathed,  have  come  to  love  him. 

Love  will  conquer  at  the  last. 

Gone  at  eighty,  mine  own  aire,  and  I  and 

you  will  liear  the  pall  ; 
Then  I  leave  thee  Lord  and  Master,  latest 

Lord  of  Ixtcksley  Hall. 

THE  FLEET.i 


You,  you,  (■/  you  shall  fail  to  understand 
What  England  is,  and  wliat  her  all-in- 
all, 

•  The  speaker  said  that  "  he  shoiila  like  to  be 
assured  that  other  outlying  portions  of  the  Em- 
pire, the  Crown  colonies,  and  important  coaling 
stations,  were  being  as  promptly  and  as  thor- 
oughly fortified  as  the  various  capitals  of  the  self- 
governing  colonies.  He  was  crediblv  informed 
this  was  not  so.    It  was  impossible,  also,  not  to 


On  you  will  come  tho  curse  of  all  the  land, 
Should  this  old  Engbind  fall, 

Which  Nelson  left  so  great. 


His  isle,  the  mightiest   Ocean-power  on 
larth, 
Our  own  fair  isle,  the  lord  of  every  sea^ 
Her  fuller   franchise  —  what  would  thaS 
be  worth  — 
Her  ancient  fame  of  Free  — 

Were  she  ...  a  fallen  state  ? 


Her   dauntless    army    scatter'd,   and    so 
small, 
Her   island  -  myriads    fed    from   alien 
lands  — 
The  fleet  of  England  is  her  all-in-all ; 
Her  fleet  is  in  your  hands, 

And  in  her  fleet  her  Fate. 


You,  vou,  that  have  the  orderiner  of  her 
'fl.et,  ^ 

If  you  .>^hould  only  compass  her  di.«grace. 
When  all  men  stai  ve,  the  wild  mob's  mil- 
linn  feet 

Will  kick  you  from  your  place, 

Mut  then  too  late,  too  late, 
feel  some  degree  of  anxiety  about  the  efficacy  of 
present  provision  to  defendand  protect,  by  means 
of  swift,  well-armed  cruisers,  the  immense  mer- 
cantile fleet  of  the  Knipire.  A  third  source  of 
anxiety,  so  far  as  the  colonics  were  concerned, 
was  the  apparently  insufficient  provision  for  the 
rapid  manufacture  of  armaments  and  their  prompt 
despatch  when  ordered  to  their  colonial  destina- 
tion. Hence  tho  necessity  for  manufacturing 
appliances  equal  to  the  requirements,  net  of 
(Jreat  Britain  alone,  but  of  the  whole  Empire. 
But  the  keystone  of  the  whole  was  the  necessity 
foran  overwhelmingly  powerful  fleet  and  efficient 
defence  for  all  necessary  coaling  stations.  This 
was  a.s  essential  for  the  colonies  as  for  Great  Brit- 
ain. It  was  the  one  condition  for  the  continuance 
of  the  Empire.  All  that  Continental  Powers 
did  with  respect  to  armies  England  should  effect 
with  her  navy.  It  was  e.'^stntially  a  defensive 
force,  and  could  be  moved  rapidly  from  point  to 
point,  but  it  should  be  equal  to  all  that  was  ex- 
pected from  it.  It  w  as  to  strengthen  the  fleet  thai 
colonists  would  first  readily  tax  themselves,  be- 
cause they  realized  how  essential  a  powerful  fleet 
was  to  the  safety,  not  only  of  that  extensive 
commerce  sailing  in  every  sea,  but  ultimately  to 
the  security  of  the  distant  portions  of  the  Em- 
pire. Who  could  estimate  the  loss  involved  in 
even  a  brief  period  of  disaster  to  the  Imperial 
Navy  ?  Any  amount  of  money  timely  expended 
in  preparation  would  be  quite  insignificant  when 
compared  with  the  possible  calamity  he  had  re 
ferred  to,''  —  From  Sir  Graham  Bt'rry's  f-pe(ck 
at  the  Colonial  Institute,  9th  November,  1886, 


762 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 

■A  SUKFACE  MAN  OF  THEORIES,  TRUE  TO  NONE/* 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS, 

Farmer  Dobson. 

Mr.  Philip  Edgar  {afterwards  Mr.  Harole). 
Farmer  Steer  (Dora  aivl  Eva's  Father). 
Mr.  Wilson  (a  Schoolmaster). 

HiGGINs,  I 

James,  I 

Dan  Smith,  }■  Farm  Laborers. 

Jackson,      | 

Allen,         J 

Dora  Steer. 

Eva  Steer. 

Sally  .\llen,  i 

MiLLY,  I 

Fartn  Servants,  Laborers,  etc. 


Farm  Servants. 


ACT   1. 

Scene. —  Before  Farmhouse. 
Farming    Men    and    Women.      Farming 

Men  carrying  forms,  ^-c,  Women  cairy- 

ing  baskets  of  knives  and  forks,  ^c. 

1st  Farming  Man.  Be  thou  a-gawin' 
to  the  long  barn  1 

2d  Farming  Man.  Ay,  to  be  sewer! 
Be  thou  ? 

[st  Farming  Man.  Why,  o'  coorse,  fur 
it  be  the  owd  man's  hirtiidaiiy.  He  be 
heighty  this  very  dajiy,  and  'e  telled  all 
on  us  to  be  i'  the  long  barn  by  one 
o'clock,  fur  he'll  gie  us  a  big  dinner,  and 
haafe  th'  parish  '11  be  theer,  an'  Miss 
Dora,  an'  Miss  Eva,  an'  all ! 

2(7  Farming  Man.  Miss  Dora  be  coomed 
back,  then  ? 

\st  Farming  Man.  Ay,  haiife  an  hour 
ago.  She  be  in  theer  now.  {Pointing 
to  house.)  Owd  Steer  wur  afeiird  she 
would  n't  be  back  i'  time  to  keep  his  birth- 
daay,  and  he  wur  in  a  tew  about  it  all  ihe 
murnin';  and  he  sent  me  wi'  the  gig  to 
Littlcchester  to  fetch  'er  ;  and  'er  an'  the 
owd  man  they  fell  a  kissin'  o'  one  another 
like  two  sweet'arts  i'  the  poorch  as  soon 
as  he  clapt  eyes  of  'er. 

2c?  Farming  Man.  Foalks  says  he  likes 
Miss  Eva  the  best. 


Is;  Farming  Man.  Naiiy  I  knaws  nowi; 
o'  what  foiilks  says,  an'  I  caiires  nowt 
neither.  Foalks  does  n't  hallus  knaw 
thessens  ;  but  sewer  I  he,  they  be  two  o' 
the  puniest  gels  ye  can  see  of  a  summer 
murnin'. 

2d  Farming  Man.  Beant  Miss  Eva 
gone  off  a  bit  of  'er  good  looks  o'  laate  ? 

Ist  Farming  Man.     Noa,  not  a  bit. 

2d  Farming  Man.  Why  coom  awaay, 
then,  to  the  long  barn.  [Fxeunt. 

Doha  looks  out  of  window.   Enter  TiOBSOif. 

Dora  {singing).     The  town  lay  still  in 
the  low  sunlight, 
The   hen  cluckt  late  by  the  white  farm 

gate, 
The  mnid  to  her  dairy  came  in  from  the 

cow, 
The  stock-dove  coo'd  at  the  fall  of  night. 
The  blossom  had  open'd  on  every  bough  ; 
O  joy  for   the  promise  of  May,   of 

May, 
0  joy  for  the  promise  of  May. 
{Nodding  at  Dobson.)    I  'm  coming  down, 
Mr.  Dobson.    I  have  n't  seen  Eva  yet.   la 
she  anywhere  in  the  garden "? 

Dobson.  Noa,  Miss.  I  ha' n't  seed  'er 
neither. 

Dora   {enters  singing).     But  a  red  firs 
woke  in  the  heart  of  the  town. 


THE   PROMISE   OF   MAY. 


763 


And  a  fox  from  the  glen  rau  away  with 

the  hen, 
And  a  cat  to  the  cream,  and  a  rat  to  the 

cheese  ; 
And  the  stock-dove  coo'd,  till  a  kite  dropt 

down, 
And   a   salt  wiud  burnt  the  blossoming 
trees  ; 
O  grief  for  the   promise  of  May,  of 

May, 
O  grief  for  the  promise  of  May 
1  don't  know  why  I  sing  that  song  ;  I 
don't  love  it. 

Dobson.  Blessings  on  your  pretty  voice, 
Miss  Dora.  Wheer  did  they  larn  ye 
that  ? 

Dora.     In  Cumberland,  Mr.  Dobson. 

Dobson.  An'  how  did  ye  leiive  the  owd 
uncle  i'  Cooinberland  ? 

Dora.  Getting  better,  Mr.  Dobson. 
But  he  '11  never  l)e  the  same  man  agDin. 

Dobson.  An'  how  d'  ye  tiud  the  owd 
man  'ere  1 

Dora.  As  well  as  ever.  I  came  back 
to  keep  his  birthday. 

Dobson.  Well,  I  be  coomed  to  kcej)  his 
birtluhiiiy  an'  all.  The  owd  man  be 
heighty  to-daay,  beiint  he  ? 

Dura.  Yes,  Mr.  Dobson.  And  the 
day  's  bright  like  a  friend,  but  the  wind 
east  like  an  enemy.  Help  me  to  move 
this  bench  for  him  into  the  sun.  (They 
move  bench.)  No,  not  that  way — hers, 
under  the  apple  tree.  Thank  you.  Look 
how  full  of  rosy  blossom  it  is. 

[Pointini]  to  apple  tree. 

Dobson.  Theer  'oe  redder  blossoms  nor 
them,  Miss  Dora. 

Dora.  Where  do  they  blow,  Mr.  Dob- 
son T 

Dobson.     Under  your  eyes,  Miss  Dora. 

Dora.     Do  they  ? 

Dobson.  And  your  eyes  be  as  blue 
as  — 

Dora.  What,  Mr.  Dobson  ?  A  butch- 
er's frock  ? 

Dobson.    Noa,  Miss  Dora  ;  as  blue  as  — 

Dora.  Blnebell,  harebell,  speedwell, 
bluebottle,  succory,  forget-nie-tiot.  ? 

Dobson.    Noii,  J\Ii.'-s  Dora  ;  ns  blue  as  — 

Dora.  The  sky  ?  or  the  sea  on  a  blue 
day  1 

Dobson.  Naay  then.  I  meau'd  they 
be  as  blue  as  violets. 

Dora.     Are  they  ? 

Dobson.  Theer  ye  goas  agean,  Mi«s, 
niver  believing  owt  I  says  to  ye  —  hallus 


a-fobbing  ma  off,  iho'  ye  knaws  I  love  ye. 
I  warrants  ye  '11  think  moor  o'  this  young 
Squire  Edgar  as  ha'  coomed  among  us  — 
the  Lord  knaws  how  —  ye '11  think  more 
on  'is  little  finger  than  hall  my  hand  at 
the  haltar. 

Dora.  Perhaps,  Master  Dobson,  I  can't 
tell,  for  I  have  never  seen  him.  But  my 
sister  wrote  that  he  was  niiglity  pleasant, 
and  had  no  pride  in  liini. 

Dobson.  He  '11  be  arter  you  now.  Miss 
Dora 

Dora.     Will  he  1     How  can  I  tell  ? 

Dobson.  He  's  been  arter  Miss  Eva, 
haiint  he  ? 

Dora.     Not  tbat  I  know. 

Dobson.  Didn't  I  spy 'em  a-sitting  i' 
the  woodbine  harbor  together  1 

Dora.  What  of  that  1  Eva  told  me 
that  he  was  taking  her  likeness.  He  's 
an  artist. 

Dobson.  What's  a  hartist  ?  I  doant 
believe  he  's  ivcr  a  'eart  under  his  waist- 
coat. And  I  tells  ye  what,  Miss  Dora : 
he  's  no  rcsjjcct  for  the  Queen,  or  the  pai'- 
son,  or  the  justice  o'  ])eaee,  or  owt.  I  ha' 
lieiird  'im  agawiu'  on  'ud  make  your  'air 
—  (iod  bless  it !  —  Stan'  on  end.  And 
wuss  nor  that.  When  theer  wiir  a  meet- 
ing o'  farmers  at  Littleehester  t'other 
daily  and  they  was  all  a-crving  out  at  the 
bad  times,  he  cooms  up,  and  he  calls  out 
among  our  oiin  men,  "The  land  belongs 
to  the  people  !  " 

Dora.     And  what  did  yon  say  to  that  ? 

Dobson.  Well,  I  says,  s'pose  my  pig's 
the  land,  and  yon  says  it  lielongs  to  the 
parish,  and  theer  be  a  thousand  i'  the 
pari>h,  taiikin'  in  the  women  and  childer; 
and  s'pose  1  kills  my  ]jig,  and  gi'es  it 
among  'em,  why  there  wud  n't  be  a  dinner 
for  nawbody,  and  I  should  ha'  lost  the 
pig. 

Doi-a.     And  what  did  he  say  to  that? 

Dobson.  Nowt  —  what  could  he  saay? 
But  I  taiikes  'im  fur  a  bad  lot  and  a  burn 
fool,  and  I  haates  the  very  sight  on  him. 

Dora  [looking  at  Dobson).  Master 
Dobson,  you  are  a  comely  man  to  look  at. 

Dobson.  I  thank  you  for  that,  Miss 
Dora,  onyhow. 

iJora.  Ay,  but  you  turn  risht  ugly 
when  you  're  in  an  ill  temper  ;  and  I  prom- 
ise you  that  if  you  forget  yourself  in  your 
beliavior  to  this  gentleman,  my  father's 
friend,  I  will  never  change  word  with  yoa 
a";aiD. 


764 


THE   PROMISE   OF   MAY. 


Enter  Farming  Man  from  barn. 

Farming  Man.  Miss,  the  farming  men 
'uU  hev  their  dinner  i'  the  long  barn,  and 
the  master  'ud  be  straiinge  an'  pleased  if 
you  'd  step  in  fust,  and  see  that  all  be 
right  and  reg'lar  fur  'em  afoor  he  coum. 

[Exit. 

Dora.  I  go.  Master  Dobson,  did  you 
hear  what  I  said  ? 

Dobson.  Yeas,  yeas!  I'll  not  meddle- 
wi'  'im  if  he  doiint  meddle  wi'  me;l.  (Exit 
Dora.)  Coomly,  says  she.  I  niver  tliowt 
o'  mysen  i'  that  waily  ;  but  if  she  'd  taiike 
to  ma  i'  that  waay,  or  ony  waily,  I  'd 
slailve  out  my  life  "fur  'er.  "  Coomly  to 
look  at,"  says  she—  but  she  said  it  spite- 
ful-like. 'I'o  look  at  —yeas,  "  coomly  "  ; 
and  she  may  n't  be  so  fur  out  theer.  But 
if  that  be  nowt  to  she,  then  it  be  nowt  to 
me.  (Loolcituj  offstage.)  Schoolmaster! 
Why  if  Steer  han't  haxed  schoolmaster 
to  dinner,  thaw  'e  knaws  I  was  hallus 
ageiin  heving  schoolmaster  i' the  parish! 
fur  him  as  be  handy  wi'  a  book  beiin't 
but  haiife  a  hand  at  a  pitchfork. 

Enter  Wilson. 

Well,  Wilson.  I  seed  that  one  cow 
o'  thine  i'  the  pinfold  agean  as  I  wur 
a-coomin'  'ere. 

Wilson.  Very  likely,  Mr.  Dobson. 
She  will  break  fence.  I  can't  keep  her  in 
order. 

Dobson.  An'  if  tha  can't  keep  thy  one 
cow  i'  border,  how  can  tha  keep  all  thy 
scholards  i'  border  ?  But  let  that  goa  by. 
What  dost  a  kuaw  o'  this  Mr.  Iledgar  as 
be  a-lodgin'  wi'  ye  ?  I  coom'd  upon  'ira 
t'other  daiiy  lookin'  at  the  coontry,  then 
a-scraltiu  upon  a  bit  o'  paiiper,  then 
a-lookin'  ngean ;  and  I  taaked  'im  fur 
soom  sort  of  a  land  -  surveyor  —  but  a. 
beiint, 

Wilson.  He 's  a  Soinersetsliire  man, 
and  a  very  civil-spoken  gentleman. 

Dobson.  Gentleman !  What  be  he 
a-doiug  here  ten  mile  an'  moor  fro'  a 
vaiiil  ?  We  laiiys  out  o'  tlie  waiiy  fur 
gentlefoiilk  altogither — leastwaiiys  they 
nivtT  cooms  'ere  but  fur  the  trout  i'  our 
beck,  fur  they  be  knaw'd  as  far  as  JAttle- 
chester.     But  'e  doant  fish  neither. 

Wilson.  Well,  it  's  no  sin  in  a  gentle- 
man not  to  fish. 

Dohs»n.     Noil,  but  I  haiites  'im. 

Wilson.     Better  step  out  of  his  road. 


then,  for  he 's  walking  to  us,  and  with  a 
book  in  his  hand. 

Dobson.  An'  I  haates  booiiks  an'  all,  fur 
they  puts  foiilk  off  the  owd  waays. 

Enter  Edgar,  reading  —  not  seeing  Dob- 
son and  Wilson. 

Edgar.     This  author,  with  his  chjirm 
of  simple  style 
And  cl(jse  dialectic,  all  but  proving  man 
An  automatic  series  of  sensations, 
Has  often  numb'd  me  into  apathy 
Against  the  unpleasant  jolts  of  this  rough 

road 
That  breaks  off  .short  into  the  abysses  — 

made  me 
A  Quietist  taking  all  things  easily. 

Dobson  (aside).  There  rauu  be  sum- 
mut  wrong  theer,  Wilson,  fur  I  doiint 
understan'  it. 

Wilson  (aside).  Nor  I  either,  Mr,  Dob- 
son. 

Dobson  (si.ornfidlii).  An'  thou  doiint 
understan'  it  neither — and  thou  school- 
master an'  all. 

Edgar.     What  can  a  man,  then,  live  for 
but  sensations, 
Pleasant   ones  1   men   of  old   would    un- 
dergo 
Unpleasant  for  the  sake  of  pleasant  ones 
Hereafter,  like  the  Moslem  beauties  wait- 
ing 
To  clasp  their  lovers  by  the  golden  gates. 
For    me,   whose    cheerless    Houris    after 

death 
Are  Night  &\xd  Silence,  pleasant  ones  — 

the  while  — 
If  possible,  here !  to  crop  the  flower  and 
pass. 
Dobson.     Well,  I  never  'eiird  the  likes 
o*  that  afoor. 

Wilson  (aside).  But  I  have,  Mr.  Dob- 
.son.  It 's  the  old  Scripture  text,  "  Let 
us  eat  and  drink,  for  to  morrow  we  die." 
I  'm  .sorry  for  it,  for,  tho'  he  never  comes 
to  church,  I  thought  better  of  him. 

Edgar.      "  What    are    we,"  says    the 
blind  old  man  in  Lear  7 
"  As  flies  to  the  Gods ;  they  kill  us  for 
their  sport." 
Dobson  (aside).     Then  the  owd  man  i' 
Lear  should  be  shaiimed  of  hissen,   but 
noan  o'  the  parishes  goas  by  that  naiime 
'ereabouts. 

Edgcr.     The  Gods  !  but  they,  the  shad- 
ows of  ourselves. 
Have  passed  for  cei.    It  is  Nature  kills, 


THE   PROMISE   OF   MAY. 


765 


And  DOt  for  her  sport  either.     She  knows 

nothing. 
Man  only  knows,  the  worse  for  him  !  for 

why 
Cannot  he  take  his  pastime  like  the  fiiesi 
And  if  my  pleasure  breed  another's  pain, 
VVfU  —  is  not  that  the  course  of  Nature 

too, 
from  the  dim  dawn  of  Being  —  her  main 

law 
Whereby  she  grows  in  beauty  —  that  her 

flR-S 

Must  massacre  each  other  ?  this  poor  Na- 
ture ! 

Dohson.  Natur  !  Natur  !  Well,  it  be  i' 
viy  natur  to  knock  'im  o'  the  'eu<i  now ; 
but  I  weiint;. 

Edjar.     A   Quietist  taking  all  things 
easily  —  why  — 
Have  I  been  dipping  into  this  again 
To  steel  myself  against  the  leaving  her  ? 

[Closes  book,  seeing  Wilson.) 
Good  (lay  ! 

Wilson.     Good  day,  sir. 

(DoBSON  looks  hard  at  Edgar.) 

Edfjnr  {to  DonsoN).  Have  I  the  pleas- 
ure, friend,  of  knowing  you  ? 

Dohson.     Dobson. 

Edgar.     Good  dav,  then,  Dobson. 

[Exit. 

Dobson.  "  Good  daily  then,  Dob.<on  !  " 
Civil-spoken  i'deed !  Why,  Wilson,  Iha 
'eard  'im  tliysen  —  the  fe^er  could  n't  find 
a  Mister  in  his  mouth  fur  me,  as  fiirms 
five  hoondred  iiaiicrc. 

Wilson.  You  never  find  one  for  me, 
Mr.  Dobson. 

Donson.  Noil  for  thou  be  nobbut 
schoolmaster;  but  I  taiikes  'ini  fur  a 
Lunnun  swindler,  and  a  burn  fool. 

Wilson.  He  can  hardly  be  both,  and 
he  pays  me  regular  every  Saturday. 

Dobson.     Yeas;  but  I  haiites  'im. 

Enter  Steer,  Farm  Men  and  Women. 

Steer.  (  Goes  and  sits  under  apple  tree.) 
Hev'  ony  o'  ye  seen  Eva  1 

Dobson.    Noii,  Mr.  Steer. 

Steer.  Well  I  reckons  they  '11  hev*  a  fine 
cider-crop  to-year  if  the  blossom  'owds. 
Good  murnin',  neighbors,  and  the  saiinic 
to  you  my  men.  I  taiikes  it  kindly  of  all 
o'  you  that  you  be  coomed  —  what 's  the 
newspniiper  word,  Wilson  ?  — celebrate  — 
to  celebrate  my  birthdaiiy  i'  this  fashioii. 
Niver  man  'ed  better  friends,  and  I  will 
64%   niver  master  'ed  better  men  :   fur 


thaw  I  may  ha'  fallen  out  wi'  ye  some- 
times, the  fault,  mebbe,  wuras  much  mine 
as  yours  ;  and,  thaw  I  says  it  inysen,  niver 
men  'ed  a  better  master  —  and  I  knaws 
what  men  be,  and  what  masters  be,  fur  I 
wur  nobbut  a  laiiborer,  and  now  I  be  a 
landlonl  —  burn  a  plowman,  and  now,  as 
furas  money  goiis,  1  be  a  genileinan,  thaw 
I  beiint  naw  scholard,  fur  I  'ed  n't  naw 
time  to  maiike  mysen  a  seliolard  while  I 
wur  maiikin'  mysen  a  gentleman,  but  I  lui 
tailen  good  care  to  turn  out  boiith  my 
darters  right  down  line  laiidics. 

Dobson.     And  soil  they  be. 

\st  Farming  Man.  Soil  they  be!  soil 
they  be ! 

2d  Farming  Man.  The  l..ord  bless  boiith 
on  'em  ! 

3(/  Farming  Man.  And  the  saiime  to 
you,  Master. 

4lh  Farming  Man.  An'  long  life  to 
buiith  on  'em.  An'  the  saiime  to  yci 
Master  Steer,  likewise. 

Steer.     Thank  ye ! 

Enter  Eva. 

Wheer  'asta  been  ? 

Eva  (timiitly).  Many  happy  returns  of 
the  day,  father. 

Steer.  They  can't  be  many,  my  dear, 
but  I  oapes  they  '11  be  'ajipy. 

Dobson.  Why  tha  looks  haiile  anew  to 
last  to  a  hoonderd. 

Steer.  An'  why  should  n't  I  last  to  a 
hoonderd?  Haiile!  why  should  n't  I  be 
haiile  ?  fur  thaw  I  be  heighty  this  \cvy 
daily,  I  niver  'es  sa  much  as  one  pin's 
prick  of  paiiin  ;  an'  I  can  tailke  my  glass 
along  wi'  the  youngest,  fur  I  niver 
touched  a  drop  of  owt  till  my  oiiu  wed- 
ding-daily, and  then  I  wur  turned  hup- 
pads  o'  sixty.  Why  should  n't  I  be  haiile  1 
1  ha'  plowed  the  ten-aiicre  —  it  be  mine 
now  —  afoor  ony  o'  ye  wur  burn  —  ye  all 
knaws  the  ten-aiicre  —  I  mun  ha'  plowed 
it  moor  nor  a  hoondred  times;  hallus  hup 
at  sunrise,  and  I  'd  drive  the  plow  straait 
as  a  line  right  i'  the  failce  o'  the  sun,  then 
back  ageiln,  a-follering  my  oiln  shadder 
—  then  hup  ageiin  i'  the  failce  o'  the  sun. 
Eh  !  how  the  sun  'ud  shine,  and  the  larks 
'ud  sing  i'  them  dailys,  and  the  smell  o' 
mou'd  an'  all.  Eh  !  if  I  could  ha'  gone 
on  wi'  the  plowin'  nobbut  the  smell  o'  the 
mou'd  'ud  ha'  maiide  ma  live  as  long  ml 
Jerusalem. 

Eva.    Methusaleh,  father. 


766 


THE  PROMISE   OF  MAY. 


Steer.  Ay,  lass,  bnt  when  thou  be  as 
owd  as  me  thou  '11  put  one  word  fur  an- 
other as  I  does. 

Dobson.  But,  Steer,  thaw  thou  be 
haale  anew  I  seed  tha  a-limpin'  up  just 
now  wi'  the  loomatics  i'  the  knee. 

Steer.  Koomatics !  Koii ;  I  laame't 
my  knee  last  night  running  arter  a  tliirf. 
Beiiut  there  house  breakers  down  i'  Lit- 
dechester,  Dobson  —  doant  ye  hear  of 
5ny  ? 

Dobson.  Ay,  that  there  be.  Inimanuel 
Goldsmiths  was  broke  into  o'  Monday 
night,  and  ower  a  hoonderd  pounds  worth 
o'  rings  stolen. 

Steer.  So  I  thowt,  and  heiird  the 
winder  —  that's  the  winder  at  the  end  o' 
the  jiassage,  tliat  goiis  by  tliy  chaiimber. 
(Turning  to  Kva.)  Why,  lass,  what 
■maiikes  tha  sa  red  1  Did  'e  git  into  tliy 
chaumber  ? 

Eva.     Fatlier ! 

Steer.  Well,  I  runned  arter  tln'ef  i' 
the  dark,  aud  fell  ageiin  coalscuttle  and 
my  knecil  gev  waiiy,  or  I  'd  ha'  cotchcd 
'im,  but  afoor  1  coomed  up  he  got  thriiff 
the  winder  ageiin. 

Eva.     Got  thro'  the  window  again  ? 

Steer.  Ay,  but  he  left  the  mark  of  'is 
foot  i'  the  flower-bed  ;  now  theer  be  noiin 
o'  my  men,  thinks  I  to  mysen.  'ud  ha' 
done  it  'cep'  it  were  Dan  Smitli,  fur  I 
cotchcd  'ini  once  ii-steiilin'  coiils,  an'  I 
pent  fur  'ini,  an'  I  measured  hii  foot  wi' 
the  mark  i'  the  bed,  but  it  wouldn't  fit  — 
seeiims  to  me  the  mark  wur  maiide  by  a 
Lunnnn  boot.  [Looks  at  Eva.)  Why, 
now,  what  maiikes  tiia  sa  white? 

Eva.    Flight,  father! 

Steer.  Maiike  tliysen  eiisy.  I'll  hev 
the  winder  naiiiled  up,  and  put  Towser 
under  it. 

Eva  (clasping  her  hands).  No,  no,  fa- 
ther !     "Towser  '11  tear  him  all  to  pieces. 

Steer.  Let  him  keep  awaiiy,  then  ;  but 
coom,  coom  !  let 's  be  gawin.  They  ha' 
broached  a  barrel  of  aiile  i'  the  long  barn, 
and  the  fiddler  be  theer,  and  the  lads  and 
laases  'uil  hev  a  dance. 

Eja  (aside).  Dance!  small  heart  have 
I  to  dance.  I  sliould  seem  to  be  dancing 
upon  a  grave. 

Steer.  Wlieer  be  Mr.  Edgar  ?  about 
the  premises  ? 

Dobson.     Hall  us  about  the  premises  ! 

Steer.  So  much  the  better,  so  much 
the  better.    I  likes  'im,  and  Eva  likes  'im. 


Eva  can  do  owt  wi'  'im  ;  look  for  'im, 
Eva,  and  bring  'im  to  the  barn.  He  'ant 
uaw  pride  in  'im,  and  we  '11  git  'im  to 
speechify  for  us  arter  dinner. 

Eva.'   Yes,  father!  [Exit. 

Sleer.  Coom  along  then,  all  the  rest 
o'  ye !  Churchwarden  be  a  coomin, 
thaw  me  and  'im  we  niver  'grees  about 
the  tithe;  and  Parson  mcbbe,  thaw  lie 
niver  mended  that  gaj)  i'  the  glebe  fence 
as  1  telled  'im  ;  and  Blacksmilh,  tiiaw  he 
niver  shoes  a  herse  to  my  likings;  and 
IJaiiker,  thaw  I  sticks  to  hoiimn.aiide  — 
but  all  on  'cm  welcome,  all  on  'em  wel- 
come ;  and  I  've  hed  the  long  barn  cleared 
out  of  all  the  machines,  and  the  sacks, 
and  the  taiiters,  and  the  mangles,  and 
theer  '11  be  room  anew  for  all  o'  ye.  Fol- 
ler  me. 

AH.  Yeas,  yeas !  Three  cheers  for 
Mr.  Steer ! 

[All  exeunt,  except  Dobson,  into  barn. 

Enter  Edgar. 

Dobson  (who  is  going,  turns).     Squire ! 
—  if  so  he  you  be  a  squire. 
Edgar.     Dobbins,  1  think. 
Dobson.     Dobbins,  you   thinks;    aud  I 
thinks  ye  weiirs  a  Lunnun  boot. 
Edgar.     AVell  ? 

Dobson.  And  I  thinks  I  'd  like  to  taiike 
the  measure  o'  your  foot. 

Edgar.  Ay,  if  you  'd  like  to  measure 
your  own  length  u|)on  the  grass. 

iJolson.  Coom,  coom,  that's  a  good 
nn.  Wliy,  I  could  throw  four  o' ye;  but 
I  promised  one  of  the  Misses  I  would  n't 
meddle  wi'  ye,  and  I  weiint. 

[Exit  into  barn. 
Edgar.    Jealous  of  me  witii  Eva!     Is 
"  it  so  ? 
Well,    tho'   I  grudge    the    pretty  jewel, 

that  I 
Have    worn,  to    such    a    clod,  yet   that 

might  be 
The  best  way  out  of  it,  if  the  child  could 

keej) 
Her  counsel.   I  am  sure  I  wish  her  happy. 
But  I  must  free  myself  from  tliis  entangle- 
ment. 
I   have   all  my  life  before  me  —  so  has       ^ 
slie —  ^ 

Give  her  a  month  or  two,  and  her  affec 

tions 
Will  flower  toward  the  light  in  some  new 

face. 
Still  I  am  half-afraid  to  meet  her  cow. 


THE   PROMISE   OF   MAY. 


767 


She  will  urge  marriage  on  me.     I  hate 

tears. 
Marriage  is  but  an  old  tradition.     I  hate 
Traditions,  ever  t^ince  my  narrow  father, 
After  my  frolic  with  his  tenant's  <;irl 
Made   younger   elder  son,   violated    the 

whole 
Tradition  of  our  land,  and  left  his  heir. 
Born,  happily,  with  some  sense  of  art,  to 

live 
By  brush  anil  pencil.     By  and  by,  when 

Though  t 
Comes  down  among  the  crowd,  and  man 

perceives  that 
The  lost  gleam  of  au  after-life  but  leaves 

him 
A  beast  of  ))re)  in  the  dark,  why  then 

tiie  crowd 
May  wreak  my  wrongs  upon  my  wrongers. 

Marriage  ! 
That  line,  fat,  hook-nosed  uncle  of  mine, 

old  Harold, 
Who   leaves   me   all   his  land  at  Little- 

chester. 
He,  too,  would  oust  me  from  his  will  if  I 
Made  such  a  marriage.     And  marriage 

ia  itself  — 
The  storm  is  hard  at  hand   will   sweep 

away 
Thrones,  churches,  ranks,  traditions,  cus- 
toms, marriage 
One  of  the  feeblest!     Then  the  man,  the 

woman. 
Following  their  best  affinities,  will  each 
Bid  their  old  bond  farewell  with  smiles, 

not  tear.s ; 
Good  wishes,  not  reproaches ;  with  no  fear 
Of  the  world's  gossiping  clamor,  and  no 

need 
Of  veiling  their  desires. 

Conventionalism, 
Who  shrieks  by  day  at  what  she  does  by 

ni-ht. 
Would  call  this  vice  ;  but  one  time's  vice 

may  be 
The   virtue   of   another ;   and   Vice   and 

Virtue 
Are   but  two   masks   of   self;   and  what 

hereafter 
Shall  mark  out  Vice  from  Virtue  in  the 

gulf 
Of  never-dawning  darkness  1 

Enter  Eva. 

My  sweet  Eva, 
Where  have  you  lain  in  ambush  all  the 
morning  ? 


They  say  your  sister,  Dora,  has  return'd, 
And  that  should  make  you  happy,  if  you 

love  her  ! 
But  you  look  troubled. 

Eva.  Oh,  I  love  her  so, 

I  was  afraid  of  her,  and  I  hid  myself. 
We  never  kept  a  secret  from  each  other; 
She  would   have  seen  at  once   into  my 

trouble. 
And  ask'd  me  what  I  could  not  answer^ 

Oh,  Philip, 
Father  heard  you  last  nighc.     Our  sav- 
age mastitV, 
That   ail   but   kill'd   the   beggar  will  be 

placed 
Beneath  the  window,  Philip. 

Edijar.  Savage,  is  he  ? 

What    matters  ?     Come,  give    me  your 

hand  and  kiss  me 
This  beautiful  May-morning. 

Eva.  The  most  beautiful 

May  we  have  had  for  many  years  ! 

Edgar.  And  here 

Is   the   most   beautiful   morning  of   this 

May. 
Nay,  you  must  smile   upon  me  !     There 

—  you  make 
The  Mav  and  morning  still  more  beauti- 
ful. 
You,  the  most  beautiful    blossom  of  the 

.May. 
Eva.      Dear    Philip,   all   the   world    is 

beautiful 
If   we  were  happy,  and  could  chime  in 

with  it. 
Edgar.     True  ;  for  the  senses,  love,  are 

for  the  world ; 
That  for  the  senses. 
Eva.  Yes. 

Edgar.  And  when  the  man, 

The  child  of  evolution,  flings  aside 
His  swaddling-bands,  the  morals  of   the 

tribe. 
He,   following   his   own   instincts   as  his 

God, 
Will  enter  on  the  larger  golden  age  ; 
No  pleasure  then  taboo'd :  for  when  the 

tide 
Of  full  democracy  has  overwhelm'd 
This  Old  world,  from  that  flood  will  rLse 

the  New, 
Like   the   Love -goddess  with   no   bridal 

veil, 
Ring,  trinket  of    the  Church,  but  naked 

Nature 
In  all  her  loveliness. 
Eva.  What  are  you  saying  ? 


768 


THE   PROMISE   OF   MAT. 


Edgar.    That,  if  we  did  not  strain   to 
make  ourselves 
Better  and  higher  than  Nature,  we  might 

be 
As  happy  as  the  bees  there  at  their  honey 
lu  these  sweet  blossoiiAs. 

J'Jva.  Yes  ;  how  sweet  they  smell ! 

Edgar,     There  !  let  me  break  some  off 

for  you.  [Breaking  branch  off. 

Eva.  My  thanks. 

But,  look,  how  wasteful  of  the  blossom 

you  are ! 
One,   two,   three,   four,   five,   sis.  ^—  you 

have  robb'd  poor  father 
Of  ten  good  apples.     Oh,  ]  forgot  to  tell 

you 
H'i  wishes  you  to  dine  along  with  us, 
And  speak  for  him  after  —  you  that  are 
so  clever ! 
Edgar.     I   grieve   I    cannot ;    but,    in- 
deed— 
Eva.  What  is  it  1 

Edgar.     Well,  business.     I  must  leave 

you,  love,  to-day. 
Eva.     Leave  me,  today  !     And   when 

will  you  return  1 
Edgar.     I  cannot  tell  precisely  ;  but  — 
Eva.  But  what  ? 

Edgar.     I  trust,  my  dear,  we  shall  be 

always  friends. 
Eva.     After  all  that  has  gone  between 
us  —  friends ! 
What,  only  friends  ?  [Drops  branch. 

Edgar.       All  that  has  gone  between  us 
Should  surely  make  us  friends. 
Eva.  But  keep  us  lovers. 

Edgar.     Child,  do  you  love  nie  now  ? 
Eva.  Yes,  now  and  ever. 

Edgar.     Then  you  should  wish  us  both 
to  love  for  ever. 
But,   if   you   will   bind    love   to   one    for 

ever, 
Altho'   at    first  he    take    his   bonds  for 

flowers. 
As  years  go  on,  he  feels  them  press  upon 

him, 
Begins  to  flutter  in  them,  and  at  last 
Breaks  thro'  them,  and  so  flies  away  for 

ever ; 
While,  had  you  left  him  free  use  of  his 

wings. 
Who  knows  that  he  had  ever  dream 'd  of 
flying  ? 
Eva.    But  all   that  sounds  so  wicked 
and  so  strange  ; 
"  Till   death   us   part "  —  those    are   the 
only  words. 


The  true  ones  —  nay,  and  those  not  true 

enough. 
For  they  that  love  do  not  believe  that 

death 
Will  part  them.     Why  do  you  jest  with 

me,  and  try 
To  frighten  me  ?    Tho'  you  are  a  gentle- 
man, 
I  but  a  farmer's  daughter  — 

Edgar.  Tut!  you  talk 

Old  feudalism.     When  the  great  Demoo- 

racy 
Makes  a  new  world  — 

Eva.  And  if  you  be  not  jesting, 

Neither  the  old  world,  nor  ihe  new,  nor 

father. 
Sister,  nor  you,  shall  ever  see  me  more. 
Edgar  (moved).     Then  —  (aside)  Shall 
I  say  if? — (aloud)  fly  witli  me  to- 
day. 
Eva.     No !     Philip,  Philip,  if  you  do 
not  mari'y  me, 
I  shall  go  mad  for  utter  shame  and  die. 
Edgar.     Then,   if    we   needs   must   be 
conventional, 
When  shall  your  parish-parson  bawl  our 

banns 
Before  your  gaping  clowns  ? 

Eva.  Not  in  our  church  — 

I  think  I  scarce  could  hold  my  head  up 

there. 
Is  there  no  other  way  ? 

Edgar.  Yes,  if  you  cared 

To  fee  an  over-opulent  superstition, 
Then  they  would  grant  you  what  they  call 

a  licence 
To  marry.     Do  you  wish  it. 
Eva.  Do  I  wish  it  ? 

Edgar,    In  London. 
Eva.  You  will  write  to  me  ? 

Edgar..  I  will 

Eva.     And  I  will  fly  to  you  thro'  the 
night,  the  storm  — 
Yes,  tho'   the  fire  should  run  along  the 

ground. 
As  once  it  did  in  Egypt.     Oh,  you  see, 
I   was    just   out    of    school,    I    had    nr 

mother  — 
My  sister  far  away  —  and  you,  a  gentle- 
man. 
Told   me   to  trust  you :    yes,  in  every. 

thing  — 
That    was    the    only   true   love ;    and    I 

trusted  — 
Oh,  yes,  indeed,  I  would  have  died  for  you, 
How  could  you  —  Oh,  how  could  you '{ — 
nay,  how  could  I ? 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


769 


But  now  you  will  set  it  all  right  again, 

and  I 
Shall  not  be  made  the  laughter  of  the  vil- 
lage, 
And  poor  old  father  not  die  miserable. 
Dora  (siiu/in;/  in  the  (listance).     "  O  joy 

for  the  promise  of  May,  of  May, 
Ojoy  for  the  promise  of  ]May." 
Edgar.   Speak  not  so  loudly ;  that  must 
be  your  sister. 
You  never  told  lier,  then,  of  wiiat  has  past 
Between  us. 

Eva.  Never ! 

Edgar.  Do  not  till  I  bid  you. 

Eva.     No,  Philip,  no.  [Tunis  aicay. 

Edgar  (moved).     How  gracefully  there 

she  stands 

Weeping  —  the  little  Niobe  !     What !  we 

l)rize 
The  statue  or  the  picture  all  the  more 
When  we  have  made  them  ours !     Is  she 

Less  lovable, 
Less    lovely    being    wholly    mine !     To 

stay  — 
Follow  my  art  among  these  quiet  tields, 
Live  with  these  honest  folk  — 

And  play  the  fool ! 

No  !  she  that  gave  herself  to  me  so  easily 

Will  yield  herself  as  easily  to  another. 

Eva.     Did  you  speak,  Philip  ? 

Edgar.  Nothing  more,  farewell. 

[  The  11  embrace. 

Dora  {coming  nearer).     "  O  grief  for  the 

promise  of  May,  of  May, 
O  grief  for  the  promise  of  May." 
Edgar  (still  embracing  her).     Keep  up 

your  heart  until  we  meet  again  ? 
Eva.     If  that  should  break   before  we 

meet  again  ? 
Edgar.     Break !    nay,   call   for   Philip 
when  you  will. 
And  he  returns. 

Eva.    Heaven  hears  you,  Philip  Edgar ! 
Edgar    (moved).     And   he    would    hear 
you  even  from  the  grave. 
Heaven  curse  him  if  he  come  not  at  your 
call !  [Exit. 

Enter  Dora. 
Dora.     Well,  Eva ! 

Eva.  Oh,  Dora,  Dora,  how  long  you 
have  been  away  from  home!  Oh,  how 
often  I  have  wished  for  you  !  It  seemed 
to  me  that  we  were  parted  for  ever. 
■  Do7-a.  For  ever  you  foolish  child ! 
What 's  come  over  you  ?  We  parted  like 
the  brook  yonder  about  the  alder  island, 
to  come  together  again  in  a  moment  and 
44 


to  go  on  together  again,  till  one  of  us 
be  married.  But  where  is  this  Mr. 
Edgar  whom  you  praised  so  in  your  tirst 
letters '!  You  have  n't  even  mentioned 
liina  in  your  last  ? 

Eva.     He  has  gone  to  London. 

Dora.  Ay,  child  ;  and  you  look  thia 
and  pale.  Is  it  for  his  absence  1  Have 
you  fancied  yourself  in  love  with  him ''. 
That 's  all  nonsense,  you  know,  such  a 
baby  as  you  are.  But  you  shall  tell  me 
all  about  it. 

Eva.  Not  now  —  presently.  Yes,  I 
have  been  in  trouble,  but  I  am  happy  — 
1  tJiiuk,  quite  happy  now. 

Dora  [taking  Eva's  hand).  Come, 
then,  and  make  them  happy  in  the  long 
barn,  for  father  is  in  his  glory,  and  there 
is  a  i)iece  of  beef  like  a  house-side,  and  a 
plnm-])ud(ling  as  big  as  the  round  hay- 
stuck.  But  see  they  are  coming  out  for 
the  dance  already.  Well,  my  child,  let 
us  join  them. 
Enter  all  from  barn  laughing.     Eva  s(7s  re- 

luctdiitlg  under  apple  tree.    Steer  enters 

smoking,  sits  bij  Eva. 
Dance. 


ACT   II. 

Five  years  have  elapsed  between  Acts  I.  and  II. 

Scene.  —  A  meadow.  On  one  side  a  path 
ivay  going  over  a  rustic  bridge.  At  back 
the  farmhouse  among  trees.  In  the  dis- 
tance a  church  spire. 

DoBSON  and  Dora. 

Dobson.  So  the  owd  uncle  i'  Cooraber- 
land  be  deiid.  Miss  Dora,  beiint  he  ? 

Dora.  Yes,  Mr.  Dobson,  I  've  been  at- 
tending on  his  death-bed  and  his  burial. 

Dobson.  It  be  five  years  sin'  ye  went 
afoor  to  him,  and  it  seems  to  me  nobbut 
t'other  day.     Hes  n't  he  left  ye  nowt  1 

Dora.     No,  Mr.  Dobson. 

Dobson.  But  he  were  mighty  fond  0"* 
ye,  war  n't  he  ? 

Dora.  Fonder  of  poor  Eva  —  like 
everybody  else. 

Dobson.  (Handing  Dora  basket  of 
roses.)  Not  like  me.  Miss  Dora;  and  I 
ha'  browt  these  roses  to  ye  —  I  forgits 
what  they  calls  'em,  but  I  hallus  gi'ed 
soom  on  'em  to  Miss  Eva  at  this  time  o' 
year.  Will  ya  taake  'em,  fur  Miss  Eva, 
she  set  the  bush  by  my  dairy  winder  afoor 


1*10 


THE  PROMISE   OF  MAY. 


she  went  to  school  at  Littlechester  —  so  I 
alius  browt  soom  on  'em  to  her ;  and  now 
she  be  gone,  will  ye  taake  'em,  Miss 
Dora  ? 

Dora.  I  thank  you.  They  tell  me  that 
yesterday  you  mentioned  her  name  too 
suddenly  before  my  father.  See  that  you 
do  not  do  so  again ! 

Dobson.  Noii ;  I  knaws  a  deiil  better 
aow.     I  seed  how  the  owd  man  wur  vext. 

Dora.  I  take  them,  then,  for  Eva's 
sake. 

[Takes  basket,  places  some  in  her  dress. 

Dobson.  Eva's  saiike.  Yeas.  Poor 
gel,  poor  gel!  I  can't  abeilr  to  think  on 
'er  now,  fur  I  'd  ha'  done  owt  fur  'er  my- 
sen ;  an'  ony  o'  Steer's  men,  an'  ony  o' 
my  men  u'd  ha'  done  owt  fur  'er,  an'  all 
the  parish  'ud  ha'  done  owt  fur  'er,  fur 
we  was  all  on  ns  proud  on  'er,  an'  them 
theer  be  i^^ome  of  her  oiin  roses,  an'  she 
wur  as  sweet  as  ony  on  'em  —  the  Lord 
bless  'er  —  'er  oiin  sen;  an'  weiint  ye 
taiike  'em  now.  Miss  Dora,  fur  'er  saiike 
an'  fur  my  saiike  an'  all  ? 

Dora.     Do  you  want  them  back  again  ? 

Dobson.  Noii,  Noii !  Keep  'em.  But 
I  bed  a  word  to  saiiy  to  ye. 

Dora.  Whv,  Farmer,  you  should  be  in 
the  hayfield  looking  after  your  men  ;  you 
could  n't  have  more  splendid  weather. 

Dobson.  I  be  a  going  theer;  but  I 
thowt  I  'd  bring  tha  them  roses  fust.  The 
weather's  well  anew,  but  the  glass  be  a 
bi*;  shaiiky.    S'iver  we  've  led  moiist  on  it. 

Dora.  Ay  !  but  you  must  not  be  too 
sudden  with  it  either,  as  you  were  last  vear, 
wiien  you  put  it  in  green,  and  your  stack 
caught  fire. 

Dubson.  I  were  insured,  Miss,  an'  I 
lost  nowt  by  it.  But  I  weiint  be  too  sud- 
den wi'  it;  and  I  feel  sewer.  Miss  Dora, 
J  ha'  been  noiin  too  sudden  wi'  you,  fur  I 
ha'  sarved  for  ye  well  nigh  as  long  as  the 
man  sarved  for  'is  sweet'art  i'  Seriptur'. 
Weiint  ye  gi  e  me  a  kind  answer  at  hist  ? 

Dora.  I  have  no  thought  of  marriage, 
my  friend.  We  have  been  in  such  grief 
these  five  years,  not  only  on  my  sister's 
account,  but  the  ill  success  of  the  farm, 
and  the  debts,  and  my  father's  breaking 
down,  and  his  blindness  !  How  could  I 
think  of  leaving  him  1 

Dohson.  Eh,  bnt  I  be  well  to  do;  and 
if  ye  would  nobhut  hev  me,  I  would 
taiike  the  owd  blind  man  to  my  oiin  fire- 
Bide.     You  should  have  him  alius  wi'  ye. 


Dora.  You  are  generous,  but  it  cart. 
not  be.  I  cannot  love  you;  nay,  I  think 
I  never  can  be  brought  to  love  any  man. 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  hate  men,  ever 
since  ray  sister  left  ns.  Oh,  see  here. 
(Fulls  out  a  letter.)  I  wear  it  next  ray 
heart.  Poor  sister,  I  had  it  five  years  ago. 
"  Dearest  Dora,  —  I  have  lost  myself,  and 
am  lost  for  ever  to  you  and  my  poor 
father.  I  thought  Mr.  Edgar  the  best  oi 
men,  and  he  has  proved  himself  the  worst. 
Seek  not  for  me  or  you  may  find  me  at 
tlie  bottom  of  the  river.  —  Eva." 

Dubson.     Be  tiiat  my  fault  1 

Dora.  No ;  but  how  sliould  I,  with 
tills  yrief  still  at  my  heart,  take  to  the 
milking  of  your  cows,  tlie  fatting  of  your 
calves,  tlie  making  of  your  butter,  and 
the  managing  of  your  poultry  ? 

Dobson.  Naiiy,  but  I  have  an  owd 
woman  as  'ud  see  to  all  that ;  and  you 
should  sit  i'  your  oiin  parlor  quite  like  a 
laiidy,  yc  sliould ! 

Jjora.     It  cannot  be. 

Dobson.  And  plaiiy  the  planner,  if  ye 
liked,  all  day  long,  like  a  laiidy,  you  should 
an'  all. 

Dora.     It  cannot  be. 

Dobson.  And  I  would  loove  tha'moor 
nor  ony  gentleman  "ud  loove  tha. 

Dora.     No,  no ;  it  cannot  be. 

Djbson.  And  p'raps  ye  hears  'at  I 
soomtiraes  taiikes  a  drop  too  much  ;  but 
that  be  all  along  o'  you.  Miss,  because  ye 
weiint  hev  me  ;  but,  if  ye  would,  I  could 
put  all  that  o'  one  side  eiisy  anew. 

Dora.  Cannot  you  understand  plain 
words,  Mr.  Dobson  ?  I  tell  von  it  cannot 
be. 

Dobson.  Eh,  lass  !  Thy  feyther  eddi- 
cated  his  darters  to  marry  gentlefosilk, 
and  see  what's  eoomed  on  it. 

Dora.  That  is  enough,  Farmer  Dob- 
son. You  have  shown  me  that,  though 
fortune  had  born  ymi  into  the  estate  of  a 
gentleman,  you  would  still  have  been 
Fanner  Dobson.  Yon  had  better  attend 
to  your  hayfiehl.    Good  afternoon.    \Exit. 

Dohson.  "  Farmer  Dobson  ! "  Well,  I 
be  Farmer  Dobson  ;  but  I  thinks  Farmer 
Dobson's  dog  'ud  ha'  knaw'd  better  nor 
to  cast  her  sister's  misfortin  inter  'er 
teeth  arter  she'd  been  a-reiidiu'  me  the 
letter  wi'  'er  voice  a-shaiikin',  and  the  drop 
in  'er  eye.  Theer  she  goiis  !  Shall  I  foj- 
ler  'er  and  ax  'er  to  maiike  it  up?  Noii, 
not  yet.    Let  'er  cool  upon  it ;  I  likes  "ei 


THfi;  PROMISE  OF  MAT. 


771 


all  the  better  for  tniikin'  me  down,  like  a 
laady,  as  she  be.  Farmer  Dubson  ?  I  be 
Farmer  Dobson,  sewer  anew  ;  but  if  iver 
I  cooms  upo'  Geutiemaii  Hedg'ar  ag:ean 
and  doaiit  lay  my  CMrtwhip  athuit  'is 
shou'ders,  why  then  I  beiiut  Farmer  Dob- 
son,  but  summun  else  —  blaiime't  if  I 
beant! 

Enter  Haymakers  with  a  load  of  hay. 

The  last  on  it,  eh  ? 

1st  Haymaker.     Yeas. 

Dobson.     Hoiim  wi'  it,  then. 

[Exit  surlily. 

Ist  Haymaker.  Well,  it  be  the  last  loiid 
hoam. 

2d  Haymaker.  Yeas,  an'  owd  Dobson 
should  be  glad  on  it.  What  maakes  'ira 
alius  sa  glum  ? 

Sallf]  Allen.  Glum !  he  be  wus  nor 
glum.  He  coom'd  up  to  me  yisterdaiiy  i' 
the  haiiyficld  when  meil  and  mv  sweet'art 
was  a  workin'  alon^-  o'  one  side  wi'  one  an- 
other, and  he  sent  'ini  awaiiy  to  t'  other 
end  o'  the  field  ;  and  when  I  axed  'im  why, 
he  telled  mc  'at  sweet'avts  niver  worked 
well  tou'ither ;  and  I  telled  '/m 'at  sweet- 
'arts  alius  worked  best  togither;  and  then 
he  called  me  a  rude  naiimc,  and  I  can't 
abide  'im. 

James.  Why,  Ia*!s,  doant  tha  knaw  he 
be  sweet  upo'  Dora  Steer,  and  she  weant 
sa  much  as  look  at  'im  ?  And  wheniver 
'e  sees  two  sweet'arts  togither  like  thou 
and  me,  Sally,  he  be  tit  to  bust  hissen  wi' 
spites  and  ialousies. 

Sally.  Let  'im  bu.st  hissen,  then,  for 
owt  /  cares. 

\st  Haymaker.  Well  but,  as  I  snid 
afoor,  it  be  the  Inst  loiid  hoiim;  do  thou 
and  thy  sweet'art  sins  us  hoiim  to  supper 
—  "The  Last  Loiid  Hoiim." 

All.     Ay  !  "  The  Last  Loiid  Hoiim." 

Song. 

What  dill  ye  do,  and  what  did  ye  saiiy, 
Wi'  the  wild  white-  rose,  and  the  wood- 
bine sa  gaiiy. 
An'  the  inidders  all  mow'd,  and  the  sky 

sa  blue  — 
What  did  ye  saiiy,  and  what  did  ye  do. 
When    ye    thowt    there    were    nawbody 

watchin'  o'  you. 
And  you  and  your  Sally  wa.s  forkin'  the 
haiiy, 

At  the  end  of  the  daiiy, 
For  the  last  load  hoam  ? 


What  did  we  do,  and  what  did  we  saiiy, 
Wi'  the  brier  sa  green  and  the  wilier  sa 

graiiy. 
An'  the  miilders  all  mow'd  and  the  sky 

sa  blue  — 
Do  ye  think  I  be  gawin'  to  tell  it  to  you, 
What  we  mowt  saiiy,  and  what  we  mowfc 

do. 
When  me  and  my  Sally  was  forkin'  ths 

haiiy, 

At  the  end  of  the  daiiy, 
For  the  last  loiid  hoiim  ? 

But  what  did  ye  saiiy,  and  what  did  ye  do, 
Wi'  the  butterflies  out,  and  the  swallera 

at  plaiiy. 
An'  the  midders  all  mow'd,  and  sky  sa 

blue  ? 
Why,  coom  then,  owd  feller,  I'll  tell  it  to 

you ; 
For  me  and  my  Sally  we  sweiir'd  to  be 

true. 
To  be  trre  to  each  other,  let  'appen  what 

maiiy. 

Till  the  end  of  the  daiiy, 
And  the  last  loiid  hoiim. 

All.     Well  sung ! 

.Tames.  Fanny  be  the  naiime  i'  the 
song,  but  I  swopt  it  fur  she. 

[Point in fj  to  Sally. 

Sally.  Let  ma  aloiin  afoor  foiilk,  wilt 
tha? 

1st  Haymaker.  Ye  shall  sing  that 
ageiin  to-night,  fur  owd  Dobson  'II  gi'e 
us  a  bit  o'  supper. 

Sally.  I  weiiiit  goii  to  owd  Dobson  ;  he 
wur  rude  to  me  i'  tha  haiiyfield,  and  he  '11 
he  rude  to  me  ageiin  to  -  night.  Owd 
Steer's  gotten  all  his  grass  down  and 
wants  a  hand,  and  I  'II  goii  to  him. 

\st  Haymaker.  Owd  Steer  gi'es  iinhbut 
cowd  tea  to  '/s  men,  and  owd  Dob.son 
gi'es  beer. 

Sally.  Bu*  I  'd  like  owd  Steer's  cowd 
tea  better  nor  Dobson's  beer.     Good-bye. 

[  (loing. 

James.     Gi'e  ns  a  buss  fust,  lass. 

Sally.     I  tell'd  tha  to  let  ma  aloiin ! 

James.  Why,  was  nt'  thou  and  me 
a-bussin'  o'  one  another  t'other  side  o'  the 
haiiycock,  when  owd  Dobson  coom'd  upo' 
ns  ?  I  can't  let  tha  aloiin  if  1  vrould, 
Sally.  \Qff^^''"9  to  kins  her. 

Sally.     Git  along  wi'  ye,  do  !        [Exit. 
[All  laugh  ;   exeunt  singing. 
"  To   be    true  to   each  other,  let  'appea 
what  maay, 


772 


THE   PROMISE   OF  MAY. 


Till  the  end  o'  the  daay 
An'  the  last  load  hoam." 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold.     Not  Harold  !    "  Philip  Edgar, 

Philip  Edgar  ! " 
Her  phantom  call'd  me  by  the  name  she 

loved. 
I  told   her  I  should  hear  her  from    the 

grave. 
Ay  !  yonder  is  her  casement.    I  remember 
Her  bright  face  beaming   starlike  down 

upon  me 
Thro'  that  rich  cloud  of  blossom.     Since 

I  left  her 
Here  weeping,  I  have  ranged  the  world, 

and  sat 
Thro'  every  sensual  course  of   that  full 

feast 
That  leaves  but  emptiness. 

Song. 
"  To  be   true   to  each  other,  let   'appen 
what  maiiy, 

To  the  end  o'  the  daily 
An'  the  last  loiid  hoam." 

Harold.     Poor  Eva !    O  my  God  if  man 

be  only 
A  willy-nilly  current  of  sensations  — 
Reaction  needs  must  follow  revel  —  yet  — 
Why  feel  remorse,  he,  knowing  that  lie 

must  have 
Moved  in  the  iron  grooves  of  Destiny  1 
Remorse  then  is  a  part  of  Destiny, 
Nature  a  liar,  making  us  feel  guilty 
Of  her  own  faults 

My  grandfather  —  of  him 
They  say,  that  women  — 

O  this  mortal  house. 
Which  we  are  born  into,  is  haunted  by 
The  ghosts  of  the  dead  passions  of  dead 

men  ; 
And  these  take  flesh  again  with  our  own 

flesh, 
And  bring  ns  to  confusion. 

He  was  only 
A  poor  philosopher  who  call'd  the  mind 
Of  children  a  bLink  page,  a  tabula  ram. 
There,  there,  is  written  in  invisible  inks 
"Lust,  Prodigality,  Covetousness,  Craft, 
Cowardice,  Murder  "  —  and  the  heat  and 

fire 
Of  life  will   bring  them  out,  and  black 

enough. 
So  the  child   grow  to   manhood :    better 

death 
With  our  first  wail  than  life  — 


Song  (further  off). 

"  Till  the  end  o'  the  daay 
An'  the  last  load  hoam, 
Load  hojim." 

This  bridge  again  !     (Steps  on  the  bridge.) 
How  often  have  I  stood 

With  P>va  here  !     The   brook  among  itr 
flowers ! 

Forget  -  me  -  not,  meadow  -  sweet,  willov 
herb. 

I  had  some  smattering  of  science  then, 

Taught   her   the   learned   names,   anato- 
mized 

The   flowers  for  her  —  and   now   I  only 
wish 

This  pool  were  deep  enough,  that  I  might 
plunge 

And  lose  mj^self  for  ever. 

Enter  Dan  Smith  (singing). 

Dan   S7})ith.     Gee    oop !   whoa !      Gee 
oop !  whofi ! 
Scizzars  an'  Pumpy  was  good  uns  to  goii 
Thruf  .slush  an'  squad 
When  roads  was  bad. 
But  hallus  ud  stop  at  the  Vine-an'-the- 
Hop, 
Fur  boiith   on  'em  knaw'd  as  well   as 
my  sea 
That  beer  be  as  good  fur  'erses  as 

men. 
Gee  oop !  whoii !  Gee  oop !  whoa ! 
Scizzars  an'  Pumpy  was  good  uns  to  goa. 
The  beer  's  gotten  oop  into  my  'ead. 
S'iver  I  mun  gii  along  back  to  the  farm, 
fur  she  tell'd  ma  to  taiike  the  cart  to  Lit- 
tlechester. 

Enter  DoRA. 

Dora.     Half  an  hour  late  !  why  are  you 
loitering  here  ? 
Away  with  you  at  once. 

[Exit  Dan  Smith 
{Seeing  Harold  on  bridge.) 

Some  madman,  is  it 
Gesticulating  there  upon  the  bridge  ? 
I  am  half  afraid  to  pass. 

Harold.  Sometimes  I  wonder, 

When  man  has  surely  learn  tat  last  that  all 
His  old-world  faith,  the  blossom  of  his 

youth. 
Has   faded,   falling    fruitless  —  whether 

then 
All  of  us,  all  at  onca,  may  not  be  seized 
With  some  flerce  jjassiou,  not  so  much  for 
Death 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


773 


As  against  Life  !  all,  all,  into  the  dark  — 
No  more  !  —  nnd  science  now  could  drug 

and  balm  us 
Back  into  ut'scieuce  with  as  little  pain 
As  it  is  to  full  asleep. 

This  bejrgarly  life, 
This  poor,  flat,  hedged-in  field  —  no  dis- 
tance—  this 
Hollow  Pandora-box, 
With  all  the   pleasures  flown,  not   even 

Hope 
Left  at  the  bottom '. 

Superstitious  fool, 
What  brought  me   here?      To  see  her 

grave  ?  her  ghost  ? 
Her  ghost  is  everyway  about  me  here. 
Dora  {cominn  forward).     Allow  me,  sir, 

to  pass  you. 
Harold.        '  Eva ! 

Dora.  Eva ! 

Harold.     What   are  you  ?     Where   do 

you  come  from  ? 
Dora.  From  the  farm 

Here,  close  at  hand. 

Harold.      Are   you  —  you    are  —  that 
Dora, 
The  sister.     I  have  heard  of  you.     The 

likeness 
Is  very  striking. 

Dora.  You  knew  Eva,  then  ? 

Harold.     Yes — I  was  thinking  of  her 
when  —  O  yes, 
Many  years  back,  and  never  since  have 

met 
Her  equal  for  pure  innocence  of  nature. 
And  loveliness  of  feature. 

Dora.  No,  nor  I. 

Harold.     Except,  indeed,  I  have  found  it 

once  again 
In  your  own  self. 

Dora.  You  flatter  me.     Dear  Eva 

Was  always  thought  the  prettier. 

Harold.  And  her  charm 

Of  voice  is  also  yours ;  and  I  was  brood- 
ing 
Upon    a    great    unhappiness   when   you 
spoke. 
Dora.     Indeed,  you  seem'd  in  trouble, 

sir. 
Harold.  And  you 

Seem  my  good  angel  who  may  help  me 
from  it. 
Dora  (aside).    How  worn  he  looks,  poor 
man  !  who  is  it,  I  wonder. 
How  can  I  help  him?  [Aloud.)     Might  I 
ask  your  name^ 
Harold.     Harold. 


Dora.     I  never  heard  her  mention  you. 
Harold.     I  met  har  first  at  a  farm  in 
Cumberland  — 
Her  uncle's. 
Dora.  She  was  there  six  years  ago. 

Harold.     And  if  she  never  mention'd 
me,  perhaps 
The    painful     circumstances     which     I 

heard  — 
I  will  not  vex  you  by  repeating  them  — 
Only  last  week  at  Littlechcster,  drove  me 
From  out  her  memory.     She  has  disap- 

pear'd, 
They   told    rae,   from    the    farm  —  and 
darker  news. 
Dora.     She  has  disappear 'd,  poor  dar- 
ling, from  the  world  — 
Left  but  one  dreadful  line  to  say,  that  we 
Should   find    her  in   the   river ;    and   we 

dragg'd 
The  Littlechcster  river  all  in  vain  : 
Have  sorrow'd  for  her  all  these  years  in 

vain. 
And  my  poor  father,  utterly  broken  down 
By    losing    her  —  she   was    his   favorite 

child  — 
Has  let  his  farm,  all  his  affairs,  I  fear, 
But  for  the  slender  help  that  I  can  give. 
Fall  into  ruin.     Ah!  that  villain,  Edgar, 
If  he  should  ever  siiow  his  face  among  us, 
Our  men  and  boys  would  hoot  him,  stone 

him,  hunt  him 
With  ])itchforks  off  the  farm,  for  all  of 

them 
Loved  her,  and   she  was  worthy  of  all 
love. 
Harold.     They  say,  we  should  forgive 

our  enemies. 
Dora.     Ay,  if  the  wretch  were  dead  I 
might  forgive  him  ; 
We   know   not   whether  he   be   dead   or 
living. 
Harold.     What  Edgar  ■* 
Dora.  Philip  Edgar  of  Toft  Hall 

In  Somerset.     Perhaps  you  know  him  ? 

Harold.  Slightly. 

[Aside.)     Ay,    for   how    slightly   have    I 
known  myself. 
Dora.     This  Edgar,  then,  is  living  ? 
Harold.  Living  ?  well  — 

One  Philip  Edgar  of  Toft  Hall  in  Somer- 
set 
Is  lately  dead. 

Dora.       Dead  !  —  is    there    more    than 

one? 
Harold.    Nay  —  now  —  not  one,  [aside) 
for  I  ani  Philip  Harold. 


774 


THE  PROMISE   OF  MAY. 


Dora.     That  one,  is  he  fehen  —  dead  ! 
Harold    (aside).     My   fatlier's    death, 
Let  her  believe  it  mine ;  this,  for  the  mo- 
ment. 
Will  leave  me  a  free  field. 

Dora.  Dead  !  and  this  world 

Is  brighter  for  his  absence  as  that  other 
Is  darker  for  his  presence. 

Harold.  Is  not  this 

To  speak  too  pitilessly  of  the  dead  ? 
Dora.     My  five-years'  anger  cannot  die 

at  once. 
Not  all  at  once  with  death  and  him.     I 

trust 
I  shall   forgive   him  —  by-andby  —  not 

now. 
O  sir,  you  seem  to  have  a  heart ;  if  you 
Had  seen  us  that  wild  morning  when  we 

found 
Her  bed  unslept   in,  storm    and  shower 

lashing 
Her  casement,   her  poor  spaniel  wailing 

for  her, 
That   desolate    letter,   blotted   with    her 

tears, 
Which  told  us  we  should  never  see  her 

more  — 
Our  old  nurse  crying  as  if  for  her  own 

child. 
My  father  stricken  with  his  first  paralysis, 
And  then  with  blindness  —  had  you  been 

one  of  us 
And  seen  all  this,  then  you  would  know 

it  is  not 
So  easy  to  forgive  —  even  tlie  dead. 
Harold.     But  sure  am  I  that  of  your 

gentleness 
You  will  forgive  him.     She,  you  mourn 

for,  seem'd 
A  miracle  of  gentleness  —  would  not  blur 
A  moth's  wing  by  the  touching ;  would 

not  crush 
The  fly  that  drew  her  blood ;  and,  were 

she  living, 
Would  not  —  if    penitent  —  have   denied 

him  her 
Forgiveness.     And  perhaps  the  man  him- 
self. 
When  hearing  of  that  piteous  death,  has 

snffer'd 
More    than    we    know.      But   wherefore 

waste  your  heart 
In  looking    on   a   chill   and    changeless 

Past  ? 
Iron  will  fuse,  and  marble  melt ;  the  Past 
Remains  the  Past.    But  you  are  young, 

and  —  pardon  me  — 


As  lovely  as  your  sister.     Who  can  tell 
What  golden  hours,  with  what  full  hands, 

may  be 
Waiting  vou  in  the  distance  ?     Might  I 

cafl 
Upon  your    father  —  I    have    seen    the 

world  — 
And  cheer  his  blindness  with  a  traveller's 
tales  1 
Dora.     Call  if  you  will,  and  when  yor 
will.     I  cannot 
Well  answer  for  my  father ;  bat  if  you 
Can  tell  me  anything  of  our  sweet  pjva 
When  in  her  brighter  girlhood,  I  at  least 
Will  bid  you  welcome,  and  will  listen  to 

you. 
Now  I  must  go. 

Harold.      But  give  me  first  your  hand : 
I  do  not  dare,  like  an  old  friend,  to  shake 

it. 
I  kiss  it  as  a  prelude  to  that  privilege 
When  you  slmll  know  me  better. 

Dora  (aside)  How  beautiful 

His   manners   are,   and   how   unlike   the 

farmer's ! 
You  are  staying  here  ? 

Harold.  Yes,  at  the  wayside  inn 

Close  by  that  alder-island  in  your  brook, 
"  The  Angler's  Home." 

Dora.  Are  yon  one  ? 

Harold.  No,  but  I 

Take  some  delight  in  sketching,  and  the 

country 
Has  many  charms,  altho*  the  inhabitants 
Seem  semi-barbarous. 

Dora.  I  am  Cflad  it  pleases  you  ; 

Yet  I,  born  here,  not  only  love  the  country, 
But  its  inhabitants  too;  and  you,  I  doubt 

not, 
Would   take  to   them   as   kindly,  if  you 

cared 
To  live  some  time  among  them. 

Harold.  If  I  did, 

Then  one  at  least  of  its  inhabitants 
Might  have  more  charm  for  me  than  all 
the  country. 
Dora.     That  one,  then,  should  be  grate- 
ful for  your  preference. 
Harold.     I  cannot  tell,  tho'  standing  in 

her  presence. 
(Aside.)     She  colors  ! 
Dora.  Sir ! 

Harold.  Be  not  afrail  of  me, 

For  these  are  no  conventional  flourishes. 
I  do  most  earnestly  assure  you  that 
Your  likeness  — 

{^Shouts  and  cries  without. 


THE   PROMISE   OF  MAY. 


775 


Dora.    What  was  that  ?  my  poor  blind 
father  — 

Enter  Farming  Man. 

Farininr/  Man.  Jliss  Dora,  Dan  Smith's 
cart  lies  ruiiued  ower  a  laiidy  i'  the  holler 
laiine,  and  they  ha'  ta'en  the  body  up  in- 
ter your  chaumber,  and  they  be  all  a-call- 
in'  for  ye. 

Dora.   The  body  !  —  Heavens  !    I  come  ! 

Harold.  Hilt  yuu  are  treniblinj;. 

Allow  me  to  go  with  you  to  the  fnriii. 

\_Exeunt. 

Enter  DoBSON. 

Dohson.  What  feller  wur  it  as  'a'  been 
a  talkin'  fur  haiife  an  hour  wi'  my  Dora  ? 
(Lodkinij  after  him.)  Seeiims  I  ommost 
kuaws  the  back  on  'im  —  drest  like  a 
gentleman,  too.  Damn  all  gentlemen, 
says  I !  I  should  ha'  thowt  they  'd  hed 
anew  of  genilefoiilk,  as  I  telled  'er  to- 
daiiy  when  she  fell  fuul  upo'  me. 

Minds  ma  o'  summiin.  I  could  sweiir 
to  that;  but  that  be  all  one,  fur  I  haiites 
'im  afoor  I  knaws  what  'e  be.  Theer !  he 
turns  round,  i'hilip  Hedgar  o'  Soomer- 
set!  Philip  Hedgar  o'  Soomerset!  — 
Noii  —  yeas  —  thaw  tlie  feller  's  gone  and 
maiidc  such  a  litter  of  iiis  faiice. 

Eh  lad,  if  it  be  thou,  I'll  Philip  tha! 
a-plniiyin'  the  saiime  gaiiine  wi'  my  Dora 
—  I  '11  Soomerset  tha. 

I'd  like  to  drag 'im  iliruff  the  hcrse- 
pond,  and  she  to  be  a-lookin'  at  it.  I  'd 
like  to  leather  'im  black  and  blue,  and 
she  to  be  a-laughin'  at  it.  I  'd  like  to  fell 
'im  as  deiid  as  a  bullock  !  { Clenching  his 
fist.) 

But  what  'ud  she  saiiy  to  that  ?  She 
telled  me  once  not  to  meddle  wi'  'im,  and 
now  she  be  fallen  out  wi'  ma,  and  I  can't 
coom  at  'er. 

It  man  be  him.  Noii  !  Fur  she'd  niver 
'a  been  talkin'  haiife  an  hour  wi'  the  divil 
'at  killed  her  oiin  sister,  or  she  beilnt 
Dora  Steer. 

Yeas  !  Fur  she  niver  knawed  'is  faiice 
when  'e  wur  'ere  afoor  ;  but  I  '11  maiike  'er 
knaw !     I  '11  maiike  'er  knaw  ! 

Enter  Harold. 

Naiiy,  but  I  mun  git  out  on  'is  waiiy 
now,  or  I  shall  be  the  death  on  'im. 

[Exit. 
Harold.     How  the  clown  glared  at  me ! 
that  Dobbins,  is  it, 


With  whom  I  used  to  jar  ?  but  can  he 

trace  me 
Thro'  five  years'  absence,  and  my  change 

of  name. 
The  tan  of   southern  summers   and  the 

beard. 
I  may  as  well  avoid  him. 

Ladylike  ! 
Lilylike    in    her   stateliness    and    sweet 

ness ! 
How  came  she  by  it  1  —  a  daughter  of  the 

fields, 
This  Dora ! 

She  gave  her  hand,  unask'd,  at  the  farm- 
gate  ; 
I  almost  think  she  half-return'd  the  press- 
ure 
Of  mine.     What,  I  that  held  the  orange 

blossom 
Dark  as  the  yew  ?  but  may  not  those,  who 

march 
Before  their  age,  turn  back  at  times,  and 

make 
Courtesy  to  custom  ?  and  now  the  stronger 

motive. 
Misnamed    free-will  —  the   crowd   would 

call  it  conscience  — 
Moves  me  —  to  what  ?     I  am  dreaming  ; 

for  the  past 
Look'd  thro'  the  present,  Eva's  eyes  thro' 

her's  — 
A  spell  upon  me  !     Surely  I  loved  Eva 
More  than  I  knew  !  or  is  it  but  the  past 
That    brightens    in   retiring  ?      Oh,   last 

night. 
Tired,   pacing  my   new  lands  at   Little- 

chester, 
I  dozed  upon  the  bridge,  and  the  black 

river 
Flow'd  thro'  my  dreams  —  if  dreams  they 

were.     She  rose 
From  the  foul  flood  and  pointed  toward 

the  farm. 
And  her  cry  rang  to  me  across  the  years, 
"  I  call  you,  Philip  Edgar,  Philip  Edgar ! 
Come,  you  will  set  all  right  again,  and 

father 
Will  not  die  miserable."     I  could  make 

his  age 
A  comfort  to  him  — so  be  more  at  peace 
With  mine  own  self.    Some  of  my  former 

friends 
Would  find  mv  logic  faulty ;   let  them. 

Color 
Flows   thro'  my  life  again,  and  I   have 

lighted 
On  a  new  pleasure.     Anyhow  we  must 


T76 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


Move  in  the  line  of  least  resistance  wlien 

The  stronger  motive  rules. 

But  she  hates  Ed<,'ar. 

May  not  this  Dobbins,  or  some  other,  spy 

Edgar  in   Harold  1     Well   then,  I  must 
make  her 

Love  Harold  first,  and  then  she  will  for- 
give 

Edgar  for  Harold's  sake.     She  said  her- 
self 

She  would   forgive   him,   by-and-by,   not 
no\/  — 

For  her  own  sake  then,  if  not  for  mine  — 
not  now  — 

But  by-and-by. 

Enter  Dobson  behind. 

Dobson.  By  -  and  -  by  —  eh,  lad,  dosta 
knaw  this  pauper?  Ye  dropt  it  upo'  the 
road.  "  Philip  Edgar,  Esq."  Ay,  you 
be  a  pretty  squire.  I  hu'  fun'  ye  out,  I 
hev.  Eh,  lad,  dosta  knaw  what  tha  means 
wi'  by-and-by  ■?  Fnr  if  ye  be  goin'  to  sarve 
our  Dora  as  ye  sarved  our  Eva  —  then, 
by-and-by,  if  she  weiint  listen  to  me  when 
I  be  a-tryiu'  to  saiive  'er  —  if  she  weiint 
—  look  to  thysen,  for,  by  the  Lord,  I  'd 
ihink  na  moor  o'  maiikin'  an  end  o'  tha 
nor  a  carrion  craw  —  noil  —  thaw  they 
hanged  ma  at  'Size  fur  it. 

Harold.     Dobbins,  I  think  ! 

JJobson.     I  beilnt  Dobbins. 

Harold.  Nor  am  I  Edgar,  my  good 
fellow. 

Dobson.  Tha  lies !  What  hasta  been 
sailyin'  to  mij  Dora  '? 

Harold.  I  have  been  telling  lier  of  the 
death  of  one  Philip  Edgar  of  Toft  Hall. 
Somerset. 

Dobson.     Tha  lies  ! 

Harold  {pullinr/  out  a  newspaper).  Well, 
my  man,  it  seems  that  you  can  read. 
Look  there  —  under  the  deaths. 

Dobson.  "  O' the  17th,  Philip  Edgar, 
o'  Toft  Hall  Soonierset."  How  coom 
thou  to  be  sa  like  'im,  then  1 

Harold.  Naturally  enough ;  for  I  am 
closely  related  to  the  dead  man's  family. 

Dobson.  An  'ow  coom  thou  by  the  let- 
ter to  'im  ? 

Harold.  Naturally  again;  for  as  I  used 
to  transact  all  his  business  for  him,  1  had 
to  look  over  his  letters.  Now  then,  see 
these  (takes  out  letters).  Half  a  score  of 
them,  all  directed  to  me  —  Harold. 

Dobson.  'Arold  I  'Arold !  'Arold,  so 
they  be. 


Harold.  My  name  is  Harold !  Good 
day,  Dobbins  !  [Exit. 

Dobson.  'Arold !  The  feller's  clean 
daiized,  an'  maazed,  an'  maated,  an'  mud- 
dled ma.  Deiid  !  It  mun  be  true,  fur  it 
wur  i'  print  as  black  as  owt.  Naay,  but 
"  Good  daily,  Dobbins."  Why,  that  wur 
the  very  twang  on  'im.  Eh,  lad,  but 
whether  thou  be  Hedgar,  or  Hedgar'c 
business  man,  thou  hes  n't  naw  business 
'ere  wi'  my  Dora,  as  I  knaws  on,  an' 
whether  thou  calls  thysen  Hedgar  or 
Harold,  if  thou  stick  to  she  I  '11  stick  to 
thee  —  stick  to  tha  like  a  weasel  to  a 
rabbit,  I  will.  Ay  !  and  I  'd  like  to  shoot 
tha  like  a  rabbit  an'  all.  "  Good  daily, 
Dobbins."    Dang  tha! 


ACT  III. 

Scene.  —  A    room    in    Steer's    House. 
Door  leading  into  bedroom  at  the  back, 

Dora  [ringing  a  handbell).     Milly  ! 

Enter  Millt. 

Milly.  The  little  'ymn  ?  Yeiis,  Miss  ; 
but  I  wur  so  ta'en  up  wi'  leiidin'  the  owd 
man  about  all  the  blessed  murnin'  'at  I 
lia'  nobbut  larned  mysen  haiife  on  it. 

"  ()  man,  forgive  thy  mortal  foe, 
Nor  ever  strike  him  blow  for  blow  ; 
Eor  all  the  souls  on  earth  that  live 
To  be  forgiven  must  forgive. 
Forgive  him  seventy  times  and  seven : 
For  all  the  blessed  souls  in  Heaven 
Are  both  forgivers  and  forgiven." 

But  I'll  git  the  book  ageiin,  and  larn 
mysen  the  rest,  and  saiiy  it  to  ye  afoor 
dark  ;  ye  ringed  fur  that,  Miss,  didn't  ye  ? 

Dora.  No,  Milly  ;  but  if  the  farming- 
men  be  come  for  their  wages,  to  send 
them  up  to  me. 

Milly.     Yeiis,  Miss.  \_Exit 

Dora  (sitting  at  desk  counting  money). 
Enough  at  any  rate  for  the  present. 
{Enter  Farming  Men.)  Good  afternoon, 
my  friends.  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Steer  still 
continues  too  unwell  to  attend  to  you, 
but  the  schoolmaster  looked  to  the  pay 
iug  you  your  wages  when  I  was  away, 
did  n't  he"? 

Men.     Yeas  ;  and  thanks  to  ye. 

Dora.  Some  of  our  workmen  have  left 
us,  but  he  sent  me  an  alphabetical  list  of 
those  that  remain,  so,  Allen,  I  may  as 
well  begin  with  you. 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


777 


Allen  {with  his  hand  to  his  ear).  Half- 
abitical !  Tailke  oue  o'  the  joiing  ones 
fust,  Miss,  fur  I  be  a  bit  deaf,  aud  I  wur 
halius  scaiired  by  a  big  word  ;  leiistwaiiys, 
I  should  be  wi'  a  lawyer. 

Dora.  I  spoke  of  your  names,  Allen, 
as  they  are  arranged  here  {shows  book)  — 
according  to  iheir  first  letters. 

Allen.  Letters!  Yeas,  I  sees  now. 
Them  be  what  they  larns  the  childer'  at 
school,  but  I  were  burn  afoor  schooliu- 
cime. 

Dora.  But,  Allen,  tho'  you  can't  read, 
you  could  whitewash  tliat  cottage  of  yours 
where  your  grandson  had  the  fever. 

Allen.     I  '11  hev  it  done  o'  Montlay. 

Dora.  Else  if  the  fever  spread,  the 
parish  will  have  to  thank  you  for  it. 

Allen.  Meil  1  why,  it  he  the  Lord's  do- 
in',  uoiin  o'  mine  ;  d'  ye  think  /  '</  gi'e  'em 
the  fever  ?  But  I  thanks  ye  all  the  saame, 
Miss.     (Takes  money.) 

Dora  (calling  out  names).  Higgins, 
Jackson,  Luscombe,  Nokes,  Oldham,  Skip- 
worth  !  (All  take  monei/.)  Did  you  find 
that  you  worked  at  all  the  worse  upon  the 
cold  tea  than  you  would  have  done  upon 
the  beer  ? 

Higgins.  Noa,  Miss ;  we  worked  naw 
wuss  upo'  the  cowd  tea ;  but  we  'd  ha' 
worked  better  upo'  the  beer. 

Dora.  Come,  come,  you  worked  well 
enough,  and  I  am  much  obliged  to  all  of 
you.  There  's  for  you,  and  you,  and  you. 
Count  the  mone^'  and  see  if  it  's  all 
right. 

Men.  All  right.  Miss ;  and  thank  ye 
kindly. 

[Exeunt  Luscombe,  Nokes,  Oldh.\m, 
Skipworth. 

Dora.  Dan  Smith,  my  father  and  I 
forgave  you  stealmg  our  ccals. 

[Dan  Smith  advances  to  Dora. 

Dan  Smith  (bellowing).  Whoy,  O  lor. 
Miss!  that  wur  sa  long  back,  and  the 
walls  sa  thin,  and  the  winders  brokken, 
and  the  weather  sa  cowd,  and  my  missus 
a-gittin'  ower  'er  lyin'-in. 

Dora.  Did  n't  I  say  that  we  had  forgiven 
you  ?  But,  Dan  Smith,  they  tell  me  that 
you  —  and  you  have  six  children  —  spent 
all  your  last  Saturday's  wages  at  the  ale- 
house ;  that  you  were  stupid  drunk  all 
Sunday,  and  so  ill  in  consequence  all 
Monday,  that  you  did  not  come  into  the 
hayfield.  Why  should  I  pay  you  your 
full  wages  1 


Dan  Smith.  I  be  ready  to  taiike  the 
pledge. 

Dora.  And  as  ready  to  break  it  again. 
Besides  it  was  you  that  were  driving  the 
cart  —  and  I  fear  you  were  tipsy  then,  too 
—  when  you  lamed  the  lady  in  "the  hollow 
lane. 

Dan  Smith  (bellowing).  O  lor,  Miss! 
noii,  noii,  noii !  Ye  sees  the  holler  lailne 
be  halius  sa  dark,  i'  the  arternoon,' and 
wheere  the  b'g  eshtree  cuts  atluirt  it,  it 
gi'es  a  turn  like,  aud  'ow  should  1  see  to 
laiiuie  the  laiidy,  and  meil  coomin'  along 
pretty  sharp  an'  all  ? 

Dora.  Well,  there  are  your  wages ; 
the  next  time  you  waste  them  at  a  pot- 
house you  get  no  more  from  me.  [Exit 
Dan  S.mith].  Sally  Allen,  you  worked 
for  Mr.  Dobsou,  did  n't  you  ? 

Sally  (advancing).  YeJis  Miss;  but  he 
wur  so  rough  wi'  ma,  I  could  n't  abide 
'im. 

Dora.  Why  should  hn  be  rough  with 
you  ?  You  are  as  good  as  a  man  in  the 
hayfield.  What 's  become  of  your  brother  ? 

Sally.  'Listed  for  a  soiidger.  Miss,  i' 
the  Queen's  Real  Hard  Tillery. 

Dora.  And  your  sweetheart  —  when 
are  you  and  he  to  be  married  ? 

Sally.  At  Michaelmas,  Miss,  please 
God. 

Dora.  You  are  an  honest  pair.  I  will 
come  to  your  wedding. 

Sally.  An'  I  thanks  ye  fur  that,  Miss, 
moor  nor  fur  the  waage. 

( Going  —  returns. ) 

'A  cotched  ma  about  the  waaist.  Miss, 
when  'e  wur  'ere  afoor,  an'  axed  ma  to  be 
'is  little  sweet-art,  an'  soa  I  knaw'd  'im 
when  I  seed  'im  ageiiu  an  I  telled  feyther 
on  'im. 

Dora.     What  is  all  this,  Allen  ? 

Allen.  Why,  Miss  Dora,  meil  and  my 
mailtes,  us  three,  we  wants  to  hev  three 
words  wi'  ye. 

Higgins.     That  be  'im,  and  meii,  Misa. 

Jackson.     An'  meii,  Miss. 

Allen.  An'  we  weiint  mention  naw 
uaiimes,  we  'd  as  lief  talk  o'  the  divil 
afoor  ye  as  'im,  fur  they  says  the  master 
goiis  cleiin  off  his  'eiid  when  he  'eiirs  the 
nailme  on  'im  ;  but  us  three,  arter  Sally  'd 
telled  us  on  'im,  we  fun'  'im  out  a-walkin' 
i'  West  Field  wi'  a  white  'at,  nine  o'clock, 
upo'  Tuesday  murnin',  and  all  on  us,  wi' 
your  leave,  we  wants  to  leather  'im. 


778 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


Dora.     Who  ? 

Allen.     Him  as  done  the  mischief  here, 
five  year'  siu'. 

Dora.     Mr.  Edgar  ? 

Allen.  Theer,  Miss  !  You  ha'  naamed 
'im  —  not  me. 

Dora.  He's  dead,  man  —  dead;  gone 
to  his  account  —  dead  and  buried. 

Allen.  1  beaiit  sa  sewer  o'  that  fur 
Sally  knaw'd  'im;  Now  then? 

Dora.  Yes;  it  was  in  the  Somerset- 
shire ])apers. 

Allen.  Then  yon  man  be  his  brother, 
an'  we  '11  leatlier  'ini. 

Dora.  I  never  heard  that  he  liad  a 
brother.  Some  foolisii  mistake  of  Sally's; 
but  what !  would  you  beat  a  man  for  his 
brother's  fault?  That  were  a  wild  jus- 
tice indeed.  Let  by-goues  be  by-goues. 
Go  home  !  Good-night!  [All  exeunt.]  I 
have  once  more  ])aid  tlieni  all.  The  work 
of  the  farm  will  go  on  sstill,  but  for  how 
long?  We  are  almost  at  the  bottom  of 
the  well :  little  more  to  be  drawn  from  it 
—  and  what  then  7  I'^ncumhercd  as  we 
are,  who  would  lend  us  anything?  We 
shall  liave  to  s.ll  all  the  land,  which 
Father,  for  a  whole  life,  has  been  getiintr 
together,  a<rain,  and  that.  1  am  sure,  would 
be  the  dtath  of  him.  What  am  I  to  do  ? 
Farmer  Doh.^on,  were  I  to  marry  him,  has 
promised  to  keep  our  heads  above  water ; 
and  the  man  has  doubtless  a  good  heart, 
and  a  true  and  lasting  love  for  me  :  yet  — 
though  I  can  be  sorry  for  liim — as  the 
good  Sally  says,  "  I  can't  abide  him  "  — 
almost  brutal,  and  matched  with  my 
Harold  is  like  a  hedge  thistle  iiy  a  garden 
rose.  But  then,  he,  too  —  will  lie  ever  be 
of  one  faith  with  his  wife  ?  which  is  my 
dream  of  a  true  marriage.  Can  I  fancy 
him  kneeling  with  me  and  u'tering  the 
same  prayer;  standing  up  side  by  side 
with  me  and  singing  the  same  hymn  ?  I 
fear  not.  Have  I  done  w  isely  then  in  ac- 
cepting him?  But  may  not  a  girl's  love- 
dream  li,i\e  too  nmch  romance  in  it  to  be 
realized  all  at  <mee,  or  altogether,  or  any- 
where but  in  Heaven  ?  And  yet  I  had 
once  a  vision  of  a  pure  and  perfect  mar- 
riage, where  the  man  and  the  woman, 
only  differing  as  the  stronger  and  the 
weaker,  sliould  walk  hand  in  hand  to- 
gether down  this  va'ley  of  tears,  as  they 
call  it  so  truly,  to  the  grave  at  the  bottom, 
and  lie  down  there  together  in  ihe  dark- 
ness wliich  would  seem  but  for  a  moment. 


to  be  wakened  again  together  by  the  light 
of  the  resurreciion,  and  no  more  partings 
for  ever   and  for  ever.     (  Walks  up  and 
down.     She  sini/s). 
"  O  happy  lariv  that  warblest  high 
Above  thy  lowly  nest, 

O  brook,  that  braulest  merrily  by 
Thro'  fields  that  once  were  blest 

O  tower  s])iring  to  the  sky, 
O  graves  in  daisies  drest, 

0  Love  and  Life,  how  weary  am  I, 
And  how  1  long  for  rest." 
There,  there,  I  am  a  fool !  Tears !  1 
have  sometimes  been  nioved  to  tears  by  a 
cha;)ter  of  fine  writing  in  a  novel;  but 
w  hat  have  I  to  do  with  tears  now  ?  All 
dejieiids  on  me — Father,  this  poor  girl, 
the  farm,  everything;  and  they  both  love 
me  —  I  am  all  iu  all  to  both  ;  and  he 
Icves  me  too,  1  am  quite  sure  of  that. 
Courage,  couiage !  and  all  w ill  go  well. 
(Goes  to  bedroom  door;  opens  it.)  How 
dark  your  room  is!  Let  me  bring  you  in 
here  where  there  is  still  full  daylight. 
(Brings  l^vx  forward.)  Why,  you  look 
better. 

Eva.  And  I  feel  so  much  better  that  I 
trust  I  may  be  able  by-and-by  to  help  you 
iu  the  business  of  the  farm;  but  I  must 
not  be  known  yet.  Has  anyone  found 
me  out,  Dora  ? 

Dora.  Oh,  no  ;  you  kept  your  veil  too 
close  for  that  wheu  they  carried  you  in; 
since  then,  no  one  has  seen  you  but  my- 
self. 

Eva.     Yes  —  this  Milly. 

Dora.  Poor  blind  P'aiher's  little  guide, 
Milly,  who  came  to  us  three  years  after 
you  were  gone,  how  should  she  know 
you  ?  But  now  that  you  have  been 
brought  to  US  as  it  were  from  the  grave, 
dearest  Eva,  and  have  been  here  so  long, 
will  you  not  speak  with  father  to-day? 

EvQ.  Do  you  think  that  I  may  ?  NOj 
not  yet.     J  am  not  equal  to  it  yet. 

Dora.  Why  ?  Do  you  still  suffer  from 
your  fall  in  the  hollow  lane? 

Eva.     Bruised  ;  but  no  bones  broken. 

Dora.  I  have  always  told  Father  that 
the  huge  old  ashtree  there  would  cause 
an  accident  some  day ;  but  he  would 
never  cut  it  down,  because  one  of  the 
Steers  had  planted  it  there  in  former 
times. 

Eva.  If  it  had  killed  one  of  the  Steers 
there  ihe  other  day,  it  might  have  beea 
better  for  her,  for  him,  and  for  ^ou. 


THE  PROMISE   OF  MAY. 


779 


Dora.  Come,  come,  keep  a  good  heait ! 
Better  for  lue  !  That 's  good.  How  bet- 
ter for  me  ? 

Eva.  You  tell  me  you  have  a  lover. 
Will  he  not  fly  from  you  if  he  leiirii  the 
story  of  my  shame  and  tliat  I  am  still 
living  ? 

Dora.  No  ;  I  am  sure  that  when  we 
are  married  he  will  be  willing  that  you 
and  Father  should  live  with  us;  for,  in- 
deed, he  telk  me  that  he  met  you  ouce 
in  the  old  times,  and  was  nmch  talien 
with  you,  my  lear. 

Eva.  Taken  with  me  ;  who  was  he  ? 
Have  you  told  him  I  am  here  ? 

Dora.     No  ;  do  you  wish  it  ? 

Eva.  See,  Dora;  you  yourself  are 
ashamed  of  me  (weeps),  and  1  do  not 
wonder  at  it. 

Dora.  But  I  should  wonder  at  mysi'lf 
if  it  were  so.  Have  we  not  been  all  in 
all  to  one  another  fiom  the  time  when 
we  first  peeped  into  the  bird's  nest,  waded 
in  the  brook,  ran  after  the  butterflies,  and 
prattled  to  each  oilier  that  we  would 
mari'v  fine  gentkMtien,  and  played  at  be- 
ing fine  ladies  ? 

Era.  That  last  was  my  Father's  fault, 
poor  man.  And  this  lover  of  yours  — 
this  Mr.  Harold  —  is  a  gentleman? 

Dora.  That  he  is,  from  head  to  foot. 
I  do  l)elieve  I  lost  my  heart  to  liiin  the 
very  first  time  we  met,  and  I  love  him  so 
much  — 

Eva.     Poor  Dora ! 

Dora.  That  I  dare  not  tell  liim  how 
much  I  love  him. 

Eva.  Better  not.  Has  he  offered  you 
marriage,  this  gentleman  f 

Dora.     Could  I  love  him  else? 

Eva.  And  are  you  ijuite  sure  that 
after  marriaire  this  gentleman  will  not  be 
shamed  of  his  poor  farmer's  d;tughter 
among  the  ladies  in  his  drawing-room  ? 

Dora.  Shamed  of  me  in  a  drawing- 
room  !  Was  n't  Miss  Vavasour,  our 
schoolinis'ress  at  Littlechester,  a  lady 
born  ?  Were  not  our  fellow-pupils  all 
ladies?  AVas  n't  dear  mother  herself  at 
least  by  one  side  a  lady  ?  Can't  I  spenk 
lii<e  a  lady  ;  pen  a  letter  like  a  lady  ;  t;ilk 
a  little  French  like  a  lady  ;  play  a  little 
like  a  lady  ?  Can't  a  girl  when  she  loves 
her  husband,  and  he  her,  mnke  her.self 
anything  he  wishes  her  to  be  ?  Shamed 
of  me  in  a  drawing-room,  indeed  !  See 
here  !    "  I  hope  your  Lordship  is  quite  re- 


covered of  your  gout?"  (Curtsies.) 
"  Will  your  Ladyship  ride  to  cover  to- 
day ?  (Ciirtslts.)  I  can  recommend  our 
Voltigeur."  "I  am  sorry  that  we  could 
not  attend  your  Grace's  party  on  the 
10th!"  (Curtsies.)  There,  I  am  glad 
my  nonsense  has  made  you  smile ! 

Eva.  I  have  heard  that  "your  Lord- 
ship," and  your  "  Ladyship,"  and  "  your 
Grace  "  are  all  growing  old-fashioned  ! 

Dora.  But  the  love  of  sister  for  sister 
can  never  be  old-fashioned.  1  have  been 
unwilling  to  trouble  you  with  questions, 
but  you  seem  somewhat  better  to-day. 
We  found  a  letter  in  your  bedroom  torn 
into  bits.  I  could  n't  make  it  out.  What 
wa>  it? 

Eva.  From  him  !  from  him  !  He  said 
we  had  been  most  happy  together,  and  he 
trusted  that  some  time  we  should  meet 
again,  for  he  iiad  not  fori;otteu  his  prom- 
ise to  come  when  1  called  him.  But  that 
was  a  mockery,  you  know,  for  he  gave 
me  no  address,  and  theie  was  no  word  of 
marriage  ;  and,  O  Dora,  he  signed  him- 
self "Yours  gratefully"  —  fancy,  Dora, 
"  gratefully  "  !  "  Yours  gratefully  "  ! 

Dora.  Infamous  wretch  !  (Aside.) 
Shall  I  tell  her  he  is  dead?  No;  she  is 
still  too  feeble. 

Eva.  Hark !  Dora,  some  one  is  com- 
ing. I  cannot  and  I  will  not  see  any- 
body. 

Dora.     It  is  only  Milly. 

Enter  Milly,  irith  basket  of  roses. 

Dora.  Well,  Milly,  why  do  you  come 
in  so  roughly  ?  The  sick  lady  here  might 
have  been  asleep. 

Mill)/.  Pleiise,  Miss,  Mr.  Dob«on  telled 
me  to  saiiy  he 's  browt  some  of  Miss  Eva's 
roses  for  the  sick  laiidy  to  smell  on. 

Dnrn.  Take  them,  dear.  Say  that  the 
sick  lady  thanks  him  !     Is  he  here'? 

Milli/.  Yeiis,  Miss ;  and  he  wants  to 
speak  to  ye  partic'lar. 

Dora..  Tell  him  I  cannot  leave  the 
sick  lady  just  yet. 

Millf).  Yeas,  Miss ;  but  he  savs  he 
wants  to  tell  ye  summut  very  partic'lar. 

Dora.  Not  to-day.  What  are  you 
staving  for? 

j////y.  Why,  Miss,  I  be  afeard  I  shall 
set  him  a-sweiiring  like  onvthink. 

Dora.  And  what  harnv  will  that  do 
you,  so  that  you  do  not  .■^opy  his  bad 
manners?      Go,  cliild.      [I'xit  Milly.] 


780 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


But,  Eva,  why  did  you  write  "  Seek  me 
at  the  bottom  of  the  river  ''? 

Eva.  Why  1  because  I  meant  it !  — 
that  dreadful  night !  that  lonely  walk  to 
Littlechester,  the  rain  beating  in  my  face 
all  the  way,  dead  miduiglit  when  I  came 
upon  the  bridge;  the  river,  black,  sHmy, 
swirling  under  me  in  the  lamplight,  by 
the  rotten  wharfs  —  but  I  was  so  mad, 
that  I  mounted  upon  tlie  parapet  — 

Dora.     You  make  me  shudder ! 

Jlou.  To  fling  myself  over,  when  I 
heard  a  voice,  "  Girl,  what  are  you  doing 
there  ?  "  It  wrs  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  come 
from  the  death-bed  of  a  pauper,  who  had 
died  in  his  misery  blessing  God,  and  the 
Sister  took  me  to  her  house,  and  bit  by 
bit  —  for  she  ])romised  secrecy  —  I  told 
her  all. 

Dora.     And  what  then  ? 

Eva.  She  would  have  persuaded  me 
to  come  back  here,  but  I  could  n't.  Then 
she  ^ot  me  a  place  as  tmrsery  governess, 
and  when  the  children  grew  too  old  for 
me,  and  I  asked  her  once  more  to  help 
me,  once  more  she  said,  ''  Go  home  ;  " 
but  I  had  n't  the  heart  or  face  to  do  it. 
And  then  —  what  would  Father  say  ?  I 
sank  so  low  that  I  went  into  service  — 
the  drudge  of  a  lodging-house  —  and  when 
the  mistress  died,  and  I  appealed  to  the 
Sister  again,  her  answer —  I  think  I  have 
it  about  me  —  yes,  there  it  is  ! 

Dora  (reads).  "My  dear  Child, — I 
can  do  no  more  for  you.  I  have  done 
wrong  in  keeping  your  secret ;  your  Fa- 
ther must  be  now  in  extreme  old  age.  Go 
back  to  him  and  ask  his  forgiveness  be- 
fore he  dies.  —  Sister  Agatha."  Sister 
Agatha  is  ri<:ht.  Don't  you  long  for  Fa- 
ther's forgiveness? 

Eva.     I  wonld  almost  die  to  have  it ! 

Dorn.  And  he  may  die  before  he  gives 
it ;  may  drop  off  any  day,  any  hour.  You 
must  see  him  at  once.  {Rings  bell.  Enter 
Milly).  Milly,  my  dear,  how  did  you 
Leave  Mr.  Steer  ? 

Milly.  He 's  been  a-moiinin'  and  a-groiin- 
in'  in  'is  sleep,  but  I  thinks  he  be  wakken- 
in'  oop. 

Dora.  Tell  him  that  I  and  the  lady 
here  wish  to  see  him.  You  see  she  is 
lamed,  and  cannot  uo  down  to  him. 

Milly.     Yeas,  Miss,  I  will. 

[Exit  Milly. 

Dora.  I  ought  to  prepare  you.  You 
must  not  expect  to  find  our  Father  as  he 


was  five  years  ago.  He  is  much  altered  i 
but  I  trust  that  your  return — for  you 
know,  my  dear,  you  were  always  his  fu- 
vorite —  will  give  him,  as  they  say,  a  new 
lease  of  life 

Eva  {dinging  to  Dora.)  Oh,  Dora, 
Dora! 

Enter  Steer,  led  bi/  Milly. 

Steer.     Hes  the  cow  cawved  1 

Dora.     No,  father. 

Steer.     Be  the  colt  dead  ? 

Dora.     No,  father. 

Steer.  He  wur  sa  bellows'd  outwi'  the 
wind  this  muruin',  'at  I  tell'd  'em  to  gallop 
'im.     Be  he  dead  ? 

Dora.     Not  that  I  know. 

Steer.  What  hasta  sent  fur  me  then, 
fur? 

Dora  {taking  Steer's  arm).  Well,  Fa- 
ther, I  have  a  surprise  for  you. 

Steer.  I  ha  niver  been  surprised  but 
once  i'  my  life,  and  I  went  blind  upon  it. 

Dora.     Eva  has  come  home. 

Steer.  Hoiim?  fro'  the  bottom  o'  the 
river  1 

Dora.  No,  Father,  that  was  a  mistake. 
She's  here  again. 

Steer.  The  Steers  was  all  gentlcfoalks 
i'  the  owd  times,  an'  I  worked  early  an' 
laiite  to  maiike  'em  all  gentlefoiilks  agean. 
The  land  belonged  to  the  Steers  i'  the 
owd  times,  an'  it  belongs  to  the  Steers 
ageiin :  I  bowt  it  back  agean ;  but  I 
could  n't  buy  my  darter  back  agean  when 
she  lost  hersen,  could  I?  I  eddicated 
boiith  on  'em  to  marry  gentlemen,  an' 
one  on  'em  went  an'  lost  hersen  i'  the 
river. 

Dora.    No,  father,  she  's  here. 

Steer.  Here!  she  moiint  coom  here. 
What  would  her  mother  saiiy  ?  If  it  be 
her  sihoiist,  we  mun  abide  it.  We  can't 
keep  a  ghoast  out. 

Evn  {fulling  at  his  feet).  0  forgive  me? 
forgive  me ! 

Steer.  Who  said  that  ?  Taake  me 
awaay,  little  jjell.  It  be  one  o'  my  bad 
daays.  \Exit  Steer  led  by  Milly. 

Dora  {smoothing  Eva's  forehead).  Be 
not  so  cast  down,  my  sweet  Eva.  You 
heard  him  say  it  was  one  of  his  bad  days. 
He  will  be  sure  to  know  you  to-morrow. 

Eva.  It  is  almost  the  last  of  my  bad 
days,  I  think.  I  am  very  faint.  I  must  lie 
down.  Give  me  your  arm.  Lead  me  back 
again.      [Dora  takes  Eva  into  inn■^r  ruojiu 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


781 


Enter  Milly. 

Millif.     Miss  Dora !  Miss  Dora ! 

Dora  [returniny  and  leaving  the  bed- 
room door  ajar).  Quiet!  quiet!  What 
is  it? 

MiUi/.     Mr.  'Arokl,  Miss. 

Dora.     Below  ? 

Milly.  Yeiis,  Miss.  He  be  saiiyiii'  a 
word  to  the  owd  luau,  but  he  'II  coom  up 
if  ye  lets  Mm. 

Dora.  Tell  him,  theu,  that  1  'm  wait- 
ing for  him. 

Milly.     Yeiis,  Miss. 

[Exit.     DOKA  sits  pensively  and  waits. 

Enter  Hakold. 

Harold.     You  are  pale,  my  Dora  !  but 
the  ruddiest  cheek 
That  ever  charm'd  the  plowman  of  your 

wolds 
Might  wish  its  rose  a  lily,  could  it  look 
But  half  as  lo\ely.     I  was  speaking  with 
Your  father,  asking   his   cousent  —  you 

wish'd  nie  — 
That  we  should  marry :  he  would  answer 

nothing, 
1  could    make    uolhiug   of  him  ;  but  my 

flower. 
You  look  so  weary  and  so  worn  !     What 

is  it 
Has  ])ut  you  out  of  heart ! 

Dura.  It  puts  me  in  heart 

A^ain  to  see  3  ou  ;  but  indeed  the  state 
Of  my  poor  father  puts  me  out  of  heart. 
Is  vours  vet  living  ? 

iJaroUl.  No  —  I  told  vou. 

Dora.  "When  1 

Harold.     Confusion! — Ah  well,  well ! 
the  state  we  all 
Must  come  to  in  our  spring-aud-winter 

world 
If  we  live  long  enough !  and  poor  Steer 

looks 
The   very    type   of    Age    in    a    picture, 

bow'd 
To  the  earth  he  came  from,  to  the  grave 

he  goes  to, 
Beneath  the  burden  of  years. 

Dora.  More  like  the  picture 

Of  Christian  in  my  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  " 

here, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust  beneath  the  burden  of 
sin. 
Harold.     Sin  !     What  sin  7 
Dora.  Not  his  own. 

Harold.  That  iiursery-tale 

Still  read,  then  ? 


Dora.     Yes ;  our  carters  and  our  shep- 
herds 
Still  find  a  comfort  there. 
Harold.  Carters  and  shepherds  1 

Dora.     Scorn  !     I  hate  scorn.     A  soul 
with  no  religion  — 
My  mother  used  to  say  that  such  a  one 
Was  without  rudder,  anchor,  compass  — 

might  be 
Blown   everyway   with  every    gust   and 

wreck 
Ou  any  rock  ;  and  the'  you  are  good  and 

gentle. 
Yet  if  thro'  any  want  — 

Harold.  Of  this  religiou? 

Child,  read  a  little  history,  you  will  And 
The   common  brotherhood   of  man    has 

been 
Wrong'd  by  the  cruelties  of  his  religions 
More  than  could  ever  have  happen'd  thro' 

the  want 
Of  any  or  all  of  them. 

Dora.  — But,  O  dear  friend 

If  thro'  the  want  of  any — I  mean  the 

true  one  — 
And   pardon    me   for    saying    it  —  you 

should  ever 
Be  tempted  into  doing  what  might  seem 
Not  altogether  worthy  of  you,  I  think 
That  I  should  break  my  heart,  for  you 

have  taught  me 
To  love  you. 

Harold.      What  is  this  1  some  one  been 
stirring 
Against  me  ?  he,  your  rustic  amourist. 
The   polish'd    Damon   of  your   pastoral 

here. 
This  Dobsou  of  your  idyll  7 

Dora.  No,  Sir,  no ! 

Did  you  not  tell  me  he  was  crazed  with 

jealousy, 
Had  threaten'd  ev'n  your  life,  and  would 

say  anything  7 
Did  I  not  promise  not  to  listen  to  him, 
Not  ev'n  to  see  the  man  ? 

Harold.  Good  ;  then  what  is  it 

That  makes  you  talk  so  dolefully  ? 

Dora.  I  told  you  — 

My  father.     Well,  indeed,  a  frieud  just 

now. 
One  that  has  been  much  wrong'd,  whose 

griefs  are  mine. 
Was  warning  me  tliat  if  a  gentleman 
Should    wed    a     farmer's    daughter    he 

would  be 
Sooner  or  later  shamed  of  her  among 
The  ladies,  born  his  equals. 


782 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


Enrol d.  More  fool  he  ! 

What  I  that  have  been  call'd  a  Socialist, 
A    Communist,    a    Nihilist  —  what    you 

will !  — 
Dora.     What  are  all  these  ? 
Harold.  Utopian  idiotcies. 

They   did  not  last    three    Junes.      Such 

rampant  weeds 
Strangle  each  other,  die  and  make  the  soil 
For  Caesars,  Cromwells,  and  Napoleons 
To  root  their   power   in.     I  have  freed 

myself 
From  all  such  dreams,  and  some  will  say 

because 
I  have  inherited  my  Uncle.     Let  them. 
But  —  shamed  of  you,  my  Empress!     I 

should  prize 
The  pearl  of  Beauty,  even  if  I  found  it 
Dark  with  the  soot  of  slums. 

Dora.  But  I  can  tell  you, 

We  Steers  are  of  old  blood,  tho'  we  be 

fallen. 
See  there  our  shield.     (Polnling  to  arms 

on  mantel-piece.)    For  I  have  heard 

the  Steers 
Had  land  in  Saxon  times;  and  your  own 

name 
Of  Harold  sounds  so  English  and  so  old 
I  am  sure  vou  must  be  proud  of  it. 

Harold. '  NotI ! 

As  yet  I  scarcely  feel  it  mine.     I  took  it 
For  some  three  thousand  acres.     I  have 

land  now 
And  wealth,  uud  lay  both  at  your  feet. 

Dora.  And  w/iat  was 

Your  name  before  ? 

Harold.     Come,  come,  my  girl,  enough 
Of   this  strange  talk.     I  love  you   and 

you  me. 
True,  I  have  held  opinions,  hold  some  still. 
Which  you  would  scarce  approve  of  :  for 

all  that, 
I  am  a  man  not  prone  to  jealousies. 
Caprices,  humors,  moods ;  but  very  ready 
To  make  allowances,  and  mighty  slow 
To  feel  offences.     Nay,  I  do  believe 
I  could  forgive  —  well,  almost  anything  — 
^    And  that  more  freely  than  your  formal 

priest, 
Because  I  know  more  fully  than  he  can 
What  poor  earthworms  are  all  and  each 

of  us. 
Here  crawling  in  this  boundless  Nature. 

Dora, 
If  marriage  ever  brought  a  woman  happi- 
ness 
I  doubt  not  I  can  make  you  happy. 


Dora.  You  make  ma 

Happy  already. 

Harold.  And  I  never  said 

As  much  before  to  any  woman  living. 
Dora.     No  ? 

Harold.     No !    by   this   true   kiss,  you 
are  the  first 
I  ever  have  loved  truly. 

\_They  kiss  each  other. 
Ena  (with  a  wild  cry).  Piiilip  Edgar  ! 
Harold.    The  phantom  cry!    You  —  did 

you  hear  a  cry  ] 
Dora.     She  must  be  crying  out  "Ed- 
gar "  in  her  sleep. 
Harold.      Wlio   must    be    crying    out 

"  Edgar  "  in  her  sleep  ? 
Dora.     Your    pardon    for    a    minute. 

She  must  be  waked. 
Harold.     Who  must  be  waked  ? 
Dora.       I  am  not  deaf :  you  fright  me. 
What  ails  you  1 
Harold.  Speak. 

Dora.  You  know  her,  Eva. 

Harold.  Eva ! 

[Eva  opens  the  door  and  stands  in  the  entry. 
She! 

Eva.     Make    her    happy,  then,   and  I 

forgive  you.  [Falls  dead. 

Dora.      Happy!     What?  Edgar?      Is 

it  so  ?     Can  it  be  ? 

They  told  me  so.     Yes,  yes  I     I  see  it  all 

now. 

0  she  has  fainted.     Sister,  Eva,  sister! 
He   is   yours   again  —  he   will   love  you 

again ; 

1  give  him  back  to  you  again.     Look  up  ! 
One  word,  or  do  but  smile !     Sweet,  do 

you  hear ine  f 

[Puts  her  hand  on  Eva's  heart. 
There,  there  —  the  heart,  O  God  !  —  the 

poor  young  heart 
Broken  at  last  —  all  still  —  and  nothing 

left 
To  live  for.        [Falls  on  body  of  her  sister. 
Harold.       Living  .  .  .  dead  .  .  .  She 
said  "  all  still. 
Nothing  to  live  for." 

She  —  she  knows  me  —  now  .  .  . 

(A  pause.) 

She  knew  me  from  the  first,  she  juggled 

with  me. 
She    hid    this    sister,    told   me   she   waa 

dead  — 
I   have   wasted    pity   on  her  —  not  dead 

now  — 
No  !  acting,  playing  on  me,  both  of  them. 


THE   PROMISE   OF  MAY. 


783 


They  drag  the  river  for  her  !  no,  not  thty  ! 
Playing  on  me  —  not  dead  now  —  a  swoon 

—  a  scene  — 
Yet —how  she  made  her  wail  as  for  the 

dead ! 

Enter  Milly. 

Milly.     Please,  Mister  'Arold  — 

Harold  (rowildn).  WelH 

Milly.     The  owd  man  's  coora'd  agciln 
to  'issen,  an'  wants 
To  hev  a  woril  wi'  ye  about  the  marriage. 

Harold.     Tiie  what  ? 

Milly.  The  marriage. 

Harold.  The  marriage  ? 

Milly.  Yeiis,  the  marriage. 

Granny  says  mavriages  be  niaiide  i'  'eaven. 

Harold.     She  lies  !     They  are  made  in 
Hell.     Cliild,  can't  you  see  '{ 
Tell  them  to  fly  for  a  doctor. 

Milly.  O  law — yeiis,  Sir  ! 

I'll  run  fur  'im  mysen. 

Harold.  All  silent  tiiere, 

Yes,  deatiilike  !    Dead  '?    I  dare  not  look : 

if  dead, 
Were  it  best  to  steal  away,  to  spare  my- 
self, 
And  her  too,  pain,  pain,  pain? 

My  curse  on  all 
This  world  of  mud,  on  all  its  idiot  gleams 
Of  pleasure,  all  the  foul  fatalities 
That   Llast    our    natural    passions    into 


pains 


Enter  Dobson. 


Dohson.    You,  Master  Hedgar,  Harold, 
or  whativer 
They   calls   ye,   for  I  warrants   that   ye 

goas 
By  haijfe  a  scoor  o'  naames  — out  o'  the 
chaumlier. 

[Drariging  him  past  the  body. 
Harold.     Not  that  way,  man  !     Curse 
on  your  brutal  strength  ! 
I  cannot  pass  that  way. 

Dobson.  Out  o'  the  chaumber  ! 

I'll  Toash  tha  into  nowt. 

Harold.  The  mere  wild-beast ! 

Dobson.      Out   o'  the  chaumber,   dang 

tha! 
Harold.  Lout,  churl,  clown  ! 

\_While  they  are  shoutiivj  and  slrugqling 
Dora  rises  end  comes  betveen  them. 
Dora  (to  Dobson).     Peapp,  let  him  be  : 
it  is  the  phamber  of  Death  ! 
Sir,  you  rire  tenfold  more  a  gentleman, 


A  hundred  times  more  worth  a  woman's 

love. 
Than  this,  this  —  but  I  waste  no  words 

upon  iiim : 
His  wickedness  is  like  my  wretchedness  — 
Beyond  all  language. 

{To  Harold.) 

You  —  you  see  her  there  .' 
Only  fifteen  when  first  you  came  on  her. 
And  then  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the 

wolds, 
So  lovely  in  the  promise  of  her  May, 
So  winsome  in  iier  grace  and  gayety, 
So  loved  by  all  the  village  people  here, 
So  happy  in  herself  and  in  her  home  — 
Dobson  {agitated).      Theer,  theer  !  ha' 
done.     I  can't  abeiir  to  see  her. 

[_Exit. 
Dora.     A  child,  and  all  as  trustful  as  a 
child ! 
Five  years  of  shame  and  suffering  broke 

the  heart 
That  only  beat  for  you ;  and  he,  the  fa- 
ther, 
Thro'  that  dishonor  which  you  brought 

upon  us. 
Has  lost  his  health,  his  eyesight,  even  his 
mind. 
Harold  {covering  his  fare).     Enough  ! 
Dora.     It  seem'd  so  ;  only  there  was  left 
A  second  daughter,  and  to  her  you  came 
Veiling  one  sin  to  act  another. 

Harold.  No ! 

You  wrong  me  there  !  hear,  hear  me !     I 
wish'd,  if  vou—  [Pauses. 

Dora.     If  I  — ' 

Harold.       Could    love    me,   could    be 
brought  to  love  me 
As  I  loved  you  — 

Dora.  What  then  ? 

Harold.  I  wish'd.  I  hoped 

To  make,  to  make  — 

Dora.        What  did  you  hope  to  make  ? 
Harold.     'T  were  best  to  make  an  end 
of  my  lost  life. 
O  Dora,  Dora ! 

Dora.         What  did  you  hope  to  make? 
Harold.     Make,  make  !     I  cannot  find 
the  word  —  forgive  it  — 
Amends. 

Dora.         For  what  ?  to  whom  ? 
Harold.  To  him.  to  you  -. 

{Fallinfj  at  her  feet. 
Dora.     To  him  !  to  me  ! 

No,  not  with  all  your  wealth, 


784 


THE  PROMISE  OF  MAY. 


Your  land,  your  life !     Out  in  the  fiercest    Laid    famine-stricken    at.    the    gatts    of 

storm 
That    ever    made    earth    tremble  —  he, 

nor  I  — 
The   shelter  of  your  roof — not  for  one 

moment  — 
Nothing  from  you ! 

Sunk  in  the  deepest  pit  of  pauperism, 
Push'd  from  all  doois  as  if  we  bore,  the 

plague, 
Smitten  with  fever  in  the  open  field. 


Death  — 
Nothing  from  you ! 

But  she  there  — -her  last  word 
Forgave  —  and   I  forgive  you.      If  you 

ever 
Forgive  yourself,  you  are  even  lower  and 

baser 
Thau  even  I  can  well  believe  you.     Go ! 
\^He  lies  at  her  feet.     Curtain  falls. 


ON   THE   JUBILEE   OF   QUEEN   VICTORIA. 


785 


DEMETER  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


TO  THE  MARQUIS  OF  DUFFERLN 
AND  AVA. 


At  times  our  Britain  cannot  rest, 
At  times  her  steps  are  swift  and  rash  ; 
She  moving,  at  her  siirdle  clash 

The  golden  keys  of  East  and  West. 


Not  swift  or  rash,  when  late  she  lent 
The  scejjtres  of  her  West,  her  East, 
To  one,  that  ruling  lias  increased 

Her  greatness  and  her  self-content. 

III. 

Your  rule  has  made  the  people  love 
Their  ruler.  Your  viceregal  days 
Have  added  fuhiess  to  the  i)hrase 

Of  '  Gauntlet  in  the  velvet  glove.' 


But  since  your  name  will  grow  with  Time, 
Not  all,  as  honoring  your  fair  fame 
Of  Statesman,  liave  I  made  the  name 

A  golden  portal  to  my  rhyme : 


But  more,  that  you  and  yours  may  know 
From  me  and  miue,  how  dear  a  debt 
We  owed  you,  and  are  owing  yet 

To  you  and  yours,  and  still  would  owe. 


For  he  —  your  India  was  his  Fate, 
And  drew  him  over  sea  to  you  — 
He  fain  had  ranged  her  thro'  and  thro', 

To  serve  her  myriads  and  the  State,  — 


A  soul  that,  watch'd  from  earliest  youth. 
And  on  thro'  many  a  brightening  year, 
Had  never  .swerved  for  craft  or  fear. 

By  one  side-path,  from  simple  truth  ; 

Tin. 
Who  might  have  chased  and  claspt  Re- 
nown 
And    caught    her  chaplet   here  —  and 
there 


In  haunts  of  jungle-poison 'd  air 
The  flame  of  life  went  wavering  down^ 


But  ere  he  left  your  fatal  shore, 
And  lay  on  that  funereal  boat, 
Dyiutr,  '  Unspeakable,'  he  wrote 

'Their  kindness,'  and  he  wrote  no  more; 


And  sacred  is  the  latest  word  ; 

And  now  The  was,  the  Might-have-been, 
And  those  lone  rites  I  have  not  seen. 

And  one  drear  sound  I  have  not  heard, 


Are  dreams  that  scarce  will  let  me  be, 
Not  there  to  bid  my  boy  farewell. 
When  That  within  the  coflBn  fell. 

Fell  and  flash'd  into  the  Red  Sea, 

XII. 

Beneath  a  hard  Arabian  moon 

And  alien  stars.     To  question,  why 
The  sons  before  the  fathers  die. 

Not  mine  !  and  I  may  meet  him  soon ; 

XIII. 

JBut  while  my  life's  late  eve  endures, 
Nor  settlis  into  hueless  gray, 
Mv  memories  of  his  briefer  day 

Will  mix  with  love  for  you  and  yours. 


ON    THE    JUBILEE     OF     QUEEN 
VICTORIA. 


Fifty    times  the  rose  has  flower'd  and 

faded, 
Fifty  times  the  golden  harvest  fallen, 
Since  our  Queen  assumed  the  globe,  the 

sceptre. 


She  belored  for  a  kindliness 
Rare  in  Fable  or  History, 
Queen,  and  Empress  of  India, 
Crown'd  so  long  with  a  diadem 


786 


TO   PROFESSOR  JEBB. 


Never  worn  bv  a  worthier, 
Now  with  prosperous  auguries 
Comes  at  last  to  the  bounteous 
Crowuing  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Nothing  of  the  lawless,  of  the  Despot, 
Nothing  of  the  vulgar,  or  vainglorious, 
All  is  gracious,  gentle,  great  and  Queenly. 


You  then  joyfully,  all  of  yon, 
Set  the  mountain  aflame  tonight, 
Shoot  your  stars  to  the  firmament. 
Deck  your  houses,  illuniinaie 
All  your  towns  for  a  festival, 
And  in  each  let  a  multitude 
Loyal,  each,  to  the  heart  of  it. 
One  full  voice  of  allegiance, 
Hail  the  fair  Ceremonial 
Of  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Queen,  as  true  to  womanhood  as  Queen- 
hood, 
Glorying  in  the  glories  of  her  people. 
Sorrowing  with  the  sorrows  of  the  lowest ! 


You,  that  wanton  in  affluence. 

Spare  not  now  to  be  bountiful. 

Call  your  poor  to  regale  with  you, 

All  the  lowly,  the  destitute, 

Make  their  neighborhood  hcalthfulle- 

Give  your  gold  to  the  Hospital, 

Let  the  weary  be  comforted. 

Let  the  needy  lie  banqueted, 

Let  the  maim'd  in  his  heart  rejoice 

At  this  glad  Ceremonial, 

And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Henry's  fifty  years  are  all  in  shadow. 
Gray  with  distance  Edward's  fifty  sum- 
mers, 
Ev'n  her  Grandsire's  fifty  half  forgotten. 

VIII. 

You,  the  Patriot  Architect, 
You  that  shape  for  Eternity, 
Raise  a  stately  memorial. 
Make  it  regally  gorgeous. 
Some  Imperial  Institute, 
Rich  in  symbol,  in  ornament. 
Which  may  speak  tc  the  centuries, 


All  the  centuries  after  U8, 
Of  this  great  Ceremonial, 
And  this  year  of  her  Jubilee. 


Fifty 


IX. 

ever-broadening 


Com' 


years    of 

merce  ! 

Fifty  years  of  ever-brightening  Science! 
Fifty  years  of  ever-widening  Empire  ! 

X. 

You,  the  Mighty,  the  Fortunate, 
You,  the  Lord-territorial, 
You,  the  Lord  manufacturer, 
You,  the  hardy,  laborious. 
Patient  children  of  Albion, 
You,  Canadian,  Indian, 
Australasian,  African, 
All  your  hearts  be  in  harmony. 
All  your  voices  ii  unison, 
Sintiing  '  Hail  to  the  glorious 
Golden  year  of  her  Jubilee! ' 


Are  there  thunders  moaning  in  the  di* 

tance  ? 
Are  there  specti-es  moving  in  the  dark- 
ness ? 
Trust  the   Hand  of  Light  will  lead  her 

people, 
Till  the  thunders  pass,  the  spectres  vanish, 
And  the  Light  is  Victor,  and  the  darkness 
Dawns  into  the  Jubilee  of  the  Ages. 


TO   PROFESSOR  JEBB, 

WITH    THE   FOLLOWING    POEM. 

Fair  things  are  slow  to  fade  away. 
Bear  witness  you,  that  yesterday  ^ 

From  out  the  Ghost  of  Pindar  in  yon 
RoU'd  an  Olympian ;  and  they  say  ^ 

That  here  the  torpid  mummy  wheat 
Of  Egypt  bore  a  grain  ar  sAvcet 

As    that   which   gilds   the   glebe   of 
England, 
Sunn'd  with  a  summer  of  milder  heat. 
So  may  this  legend  for  awhile, 
If  greeted  by  your  classic  smile, 

Tho'  dead  in  its  Trinacrian  Enna, 
Blossom  again  on  a  colder  isle. 

■  In  Bologna.   2  xhey  say,  for  the  fact  is  doubtful. 


DEMETER  AND   PERSEPHONE. 


787 


DEMETER  AND  PERSEPHONE. 
(in  enna.) 

Paint  as  a  climate-changing   bird  that 

flies 
All  nitjlit   across   the  darkness,  and    at 

dawn 
Falls  on  the  threshold  of  her  native  land, 
And  can    no   mere,  thou  earnest,  O  my 

child. 
Led  upward   by  the   God  of  ghosts  and 

dreams, 
Who  laid  thee  at  Elusis,  dazed  and  dumb 
With  ))assing  thro'  at  once  from  state  to 

state. 
Until  I  l)rought  thee  hither,  that  the  day, 
When  here  thy  hands  kt  fall  the  gatlier'd 

flower. 
Might  break  thro' clouded  memories  once 

again 
On  thy  lost  self.     A  sudden  nightingale 
Saw  thee,  and  flash'd  into  a  frolic  of  .song 
And  welcome ;   and  a  gleam   as  of  the 

moon, 
When  first  she  peers  along  the  tremulous 

deep, 
Fled  wavering  o'er  thy  face,  and  chased 

away 
That  shadow  of  a  likeness  to  the  king 
Of  shadows,  thy  dark  mate.  Persephone  ! 
Queen  of  the  ilead  no  more  —  my  child  ! 

Tliine  eyes 
Again  were  human-godlike,  and  the  Sun 
Burst  from  a  swimming  fleece  of  winter 

gray, 
And  robed  thee  in  his  day  from  head  to 

feet  — 
'  Mother ! '  and    I   was   folded   in   thine 

arms. 

Child,  those  imperial,  disimpasssion'd 

eyes 
Awed  even  me  at  first,  thy  mother  —  eyes 
That   oft   had   seen   the  serpent-wanded 

power 
Draw  downward  into  Hades  with  his  drift 
Of  flitkering  spectres,  lighted  from  below 
By  the  red  race  of  fiery  Phlegcthon  ; 
But  when  before  have  Gods  or  men  beheld 
The  Life  that  had  descended  re-arise, 
And  lighted  from  above  liim  by  the  Sun  ? 
So  mighty  was  the  mother's  childless  cry, 
A  cry  that  rang  thro'  Hades,  Earth,  and 

Heaven  1 


So  in  this  pleasant  vale  we  stand  again, 
The  field  of  Knna,  now  once  more  ablaze 
With  flowers  that  brighten  as  thy  foot- 
step falls. 
All  flowers  —  but  for  one  black  blur  of 

earth 
Left  by  that  closing  chasm,   thro'  which 

the  car 
Of  dark  A'idoneus  risii  g  rapt  thee  hence. 
And  here,  my  child,  tho'  folded  in  thine 

arms, 
I  feel  the  deathless  heart  of  motherhood 
Wicliin  me  siuulder,  lest  the  naked  glebe 
Shoukl  yawn  once  more  into  the  gulf,  and 

thenee 
The  shrill V  whiunvings  of   the  team   of 

Hell, 
Ascending,  pierce  the  glad  and  songful 

air. 
And  all  at  once  their  arch'd  necks,  mid- 

niglit-maned. 
Jet  upward   thro'  the  mid-day  blossom. 

No! 
For,  see,  thv  foot  has  touch'd  it ;  all  the 

space 
Of    blank    earth-baldness    clothes    itself 

afresh, 
And  breaks  into  the  crocus-purple  hour 
That  saw  tliee  vanish. 

Child,  when  thou  wert  gone, 
I  envied  human  wi^es,  and  nested  birds. 
Yea,  the  cubb'd  lioness  ;  went  in  search 

of  thee 
Thro'  many  a  palace,  many  a  cot,  and 

gave 
Thy  breast  to  ailing  infants  in  the  night. 
And  set  the  mother  waking  in  amaze 
To  find  her  sick  one  whole ;  and  forth 

afraiu 
Among  the  wail  of  midnight  winds,  and 

cried, 
'  Where  is  my  loved  one  ?    Wherefore  do 

ye  wail  ? ' 
And  out  from  out  all  the  night  an  answer 

shri-ll'd, 
'  We  know  not,  and  we  know  not  why  we 

wail.' 
I   climh'd   on   all   the   cliffs   of    all   the 

.seas, 
And  ask'd  the  waves  that  moan  about  the 

world 
'  Where  "?  do  ye  make  your  moaning  for 

my  child  ? 
And  round  from  all  the  world  the  voJces 

came 


788 


DEMETER  AND   PERSEPHONE. 


"  Wc  know  not,  and  we  know  not  why  we 

moan." 
"  Where"  ?  and  I  stared  from  every  eagle- 

])eak, 
I  thridded  the  black  heart  of  all  the  woods, 
I  peer'd  thro'  tomb  and  cave,  and  ''n  the 

storms 
Of   Autumn   swept  across  the  city,  and 

heard 
The  murmur  of  their  temples  chanting  me, 
Me,  me,  the  desolate  Mother !  "  Where  "  ? 

—  and  turn'd, 
And   fled    by   many    a  waste,  forlorn  of 

man, 
And  grieved  for  man  thro'  all  ray  grief 

for  thee,  — 
Tlie  jungle  rooted  in  his  shatter'd  hearth, 
The  serpent  coil'd  about  his  broken  shaft, 
The     scorpion     crawling     over     naked 

skulls ;  — 
I  saw  the  tiger  in  the  ruiu'd  fane 
Spring  from  his  fallen  God,  but  trace  of 

thee 
I  saw  not;  and  far  on,  and,  following  out 
A  league  of  labyrinthine  darkness,  came 
On  three  grav  heads  beneath  a  gleaming 

rift. 
"  Wiiere  "  ?  and  I  heard  one  voice  from 

all  the  three 
"  We  know  not,  for  we  spin  the  lives  of 

men. 
And  not  of  Gods,  and  know  not  why  we 

spin ! 
There  is   a   Fate  beyond   us."     Nothing 

knew. 

Last  as  the  likeness  of  a  dj'ing  man, 
Without  his  knowledge,  from  him  flits  to 

warn 
A  far-otff  riendship  that  he  comes  no  more. 
So  he,  the  God  of  dreams,  who  heard  my 

cry, 
Drew  from  thyself  the  likeness  of  thyself 
Without  thy  knowledge,  and  thy  shadow 

past 
Before  me,  crying  "  The  Bright  one  in  the 

highest 
Is  brother  of  the  Dark  one  in  the  lowest, 
And  Briglit  and  Dark  have  sworn  that  I, 

the  child 
Of  thee,  the  great  Earth-Mother,  thee, 

the  Power 
That  lifts  her  buried  life  from  gloom  to 

bloom, 
Should  be  for  ever  and  for  evermore 
The  Bride  of  Darkness." 


So  the  Shadow  wail'd. 
Then  I,  Earth-Goddess,  cursed  the  Gods 

of  Heaven. 
I  would  not  mingle  with  their  feasts;  to 

me 
Their  nectar  smack'd  of  hemlock  on  the 

lips. 
Their  rich  ambrosia  tasted  aconite. 
The  man,  that  only  lives  and   loves  an 

hour 
Seem'd  nobler  than  their  hard  Eternities, 
My  quick  tears  kill'd  the  flower,  my  rav- 
ings husli'd 
The  bird,  and  lost  in  utter  grief  I  fail'd 
To    send   my   life    thro'  olive-yard   and 

vine 
And   golden   grain,  my  gift   to   helpless 

man. 
Rain-rotten  died  the  wheat,  the  barley- 
spears 
Were  hollow-husk'd,  the  leaf  fell,  and  the 

sun, 
Pale  at  my  grief,  drew  down  before  his 

time 
Sickening,   and   ^tna   kept    her   winter 

snow. 
Then  He,  the  brother  of  this  Darkness, 

He 
Who  stil    is  highest,  glancing  from   his 

height 
On  earth  a  fruitless  fallow,  when  he  miss'd 
The  wonted  steam  of  sacrifice,  the  praise 
Anil    prayer  of  men,  decreed  that  thou 

should'st  dwell 
For  nine  white  moons  of  each  whole  year 

with  me, 
Three  dark  ones  in  the  shadow  with  thy 

King. 

Once  more  the  reaper  in  the  gleam  of 

dawn 
Will  see  me  by  the  landmark  far  away. 
Blessing  his  field,  or  seated  in  the  dusk 
Of  even,  by  the  lonely  threshing-floor, 
Rejoicing  in  the  harvest  and  the  grange. 

Yet  I,  Earth-Goddess,  am  but  ill-content 
With  them,  who  still  are  highest.    Those 

gray  heads, 
What  meant  they  by  their  "  Fate  beyond 

the  Fates  " 
But  younger   kindlier    Gods   to  bear  us 

down. 
As  we  bore  down  the  Gods  before  us? 

Gods, 
To  quench,  not  hurl  the  thunderbolt,  to 

sta^, 


OWD   ROA. 


789 


Not  spread  the  plague,  the  famiue  ;  Gods 

indeed. 
To  seud   the   noon   into    the    night  and 

break 
The  sunless  hulls  of  Hades  into  Heaven  ? 
Till  thv  dark  lord  accept  and  love  the  Sun, 
And  all  the  Siiadow  die  into  the  Liyht, 
When  thou  shalt  dwell  the  whole  bright 

year  with  me, 
And  souls  of  men,  who  grew  beyond  their 

race, 
And  made  themselves  as  Gods  against  the 

fear 
Of  Death  and  Hell ;  and  thou  that  hast 

from  men, 
As  Queen  of  Death,  that  worship  which  is 

Fear, 
Henceforth,  as  having  risen  from  out  the 

dead, 
Shalt  ever  send  thy  life  along  with  mine 
From  buried  grain   thro'  springing  blade, 

and  bless 
Their  garner'd  Autumn  also,  reap  with 

me, 
Earth-mother,  in    the  harvest  hymns   of 

Earth 
The  worship  which  is  Love,  and  see  no 

more 
The  Stone,  the  Wheel,  the   dimly-glim- 
mering lawns 
Of  that  Elysium,  all  the  hateful  fires 
Of   torment,   and   the   shadowy   warrior 

glide 
Along  the  silent  field  of  Asphodel. 


OWD   R0A.1 

Naay,  noii  raander  ^  o'  use  to  be  callin'  'im 

Koa,  Kosi,  Roii, 
Fo'  the  do^i's  stoiin-deiif,  an'  e's  blind,  'e 

can  neither  stan'  nor  goa. 

But  1  means  fur  to  maake  'is  owd  aage  as 

'appy  as  iver  I  can, 
Fur  I  owas  owd  Roilver  moor  nor  1  iver 
owad  mottal  man. 

Thou 's  rode  of  'is  back  when  a  babby, 
afoor  thou  was  gotten  too  owd. 

For  'e  'd  fetch  an'  carry  like  owt,  'e  was 
alius  as  good  as  gowd. 

Eh,  but  'e  'd  fight  wi'  a  will  when  'e  fowt ; 
'e  could  howd  ^  'is  oau, 
'  Old  Rover.  *  Maimer.  ^  Hold. 


An'  Roii  was  the  dog  as  knaw'dwhen  au' 
wheere  to  bury  his  boaue. 

An'  'e  kep  his  head  hoop  like  a  king,  an' 
'e'd  uiver  not  down  wi'  'is  tiiail. 

Fur  'e  'd  uiver  done  uowt  to  be  shaamed 
on,  when  we  was  i'  liowlaby  Daiile 

An'  'e  sarved  me  sa  well  when  'e  lived, 
that,  Dick,  when  'e  cooms  to  be 
dead, 

I  thinks  as  I'd  like  fur  to  hev  sooin  soort 
of  a  sarvice  reiid. 

Fur  'e  's  moor  good  sense  ua  the  Parlia- 
ment man  'at  stans  fur  us  'ere, 

Au'  I'd  voiit  fur  'im,  my  oiin  seti,  if  'e 
could  but  stan  fur  the  Shere. 

"  Faiiithful  an'  True  "  —  them  words  be  i' 
Scriptur  —  an'  Faiiithful  an'  True 

Ull  be  fun'  *  upo'  four  short  legs  ten  times 
fur  one  u])o'  two. 

An'  niaaybe  they  '11  walk  upo'  two  but  1 
knaws  they  runs  u]jo'  four,"  — 

Bedtime,  Dicky!  but  waiiit  till  tha  'eiirs 
it  be  strikin'  the  hour. 

Fur  I  wants  to  tell  tha  o'  Roii  when  we 

lived  i'  Howlaliy  Daiile, 
Ten  year  sin  —  Naiiy  —  naiiy !  tha  mun 

nobbut  hev'  one  glass  of  aale. 

Straiinge  an'  owd-farran'd  ^  the  'ouse,  an' 
hclt  "  long  afoor  my  daily 

Wi'  haiife  o'  the  chimleys  a-twizzen'd  ^  m' 
twined  like  a  band  o'  haiiy. 

The  fellers  as  maiikes  them  picturs,  'ud 
coom  at  the  fall  o'  the  year, 

An'  sattle  their  ends  upo  stools  to  pictur 
the  door-poorch  theere, 

An'  the  Hea^le  'as  bed  two  heiids  stan- 
uin'  theere  o'  the  brokken  stick;'-* 

An'  they  niver  'ed  seed  sich  iviu' i"  a^ 
graw'd  hall  ower  the  brick ; 

An'  tlieere  i'  the 'ouse  one  night  —  but 
it 's  down,  an'  all  on  it  now 


*  Found.  ^  "  Ou  "  a.s  in  "  house." 

^  "Owd-farran'd,"  oldfashioned. 
'  Built.  »  "Twizzen-d  ■'  twiwted. 

K  Ou  a  staff  ragule.  i"  Ivy. 


790 


OWD  ROA. 


Goau  into  mangles  an'tonups,^  an'raaved 
slick  thiuf  by  the  plow  — 

Theere,  when  the  'ouse  wiir  a  house,  one 
night  I  wiir  sittin'  aloUu, 

Wi'  Roaver  athurt  my  feeat,  au'  sleeapin 
still  as  a  stoiin, 

Of  a  Christmas  Eilve,  au'  as  cowd  as 
this,  an'  the  midders  '  as  white, 

An'  the  fences  all  on  'em  bolster'd  oop  wi' 
the  wiudle^  that  night; 

An'  the  cat  wur  a-sleeapin  alongside 
Roaver,  but  I  wur  awaiike, 

An'  smoiikin'  an'  thinkin'  o'  things  — 
Dotint  maake  thysen  sick  wi'  the 
caake. 

Fur  the  men  ater  supper  'cd  sung  their 
songs  an'  'ed  'ed  their  beer, 

An'  'ed  goiin  their  waiiys ;  ther  was 
nobbut  three,  an  notin  on  'em 
theere. 

They  was  all  on  'em  fear'd  o'  the  Gho'ast 
an'  dussu't  not  sleeiip  i'  the  'ouse, 

But  Dicky,  the  Glioast  moiistlins  *  was 
nobbut  a  rat  or  a  mouse. 

An'  I  loookt  out  wonst^  at  the  night,  an' 
tlie  daalc  was  all  of  a  thaw, 

Fur  I  seed  the  beck  coomin'  down  like  a 
long  black  snaake  i'  the  snaw. 

An'  I  heard  great  heaps  o'  the  snaw 
slushin'  down  fro'  the  bank  to  the 
beck, 

An'  then  as  I  stood  i'  the  doorwaay,  I 
feeald  it  drip  o'  my  neck. 

Saw  I  turn'd  in  ageiin,  an'  I  thowt  o'  the 
good  owd  times  'at  was  goan, 

An'  the  mnnney  they  maiide  by  the  war, 
an'  the  times  'at  was  coomiu'  on ; 

Furl  thowt  if  the  Staiite  was  a  gawin'  to 

let  in  furriners  wheiit, 
Howivcr   was    British    farmers    to   stan' 

agean  o'  their  feeat. 

Howiver  was  I  fur  to  find  my  rent  an'  to 
paay  my  men  1 

1  Mangolds  and  turnips. 

2  Meadows.  '  Drifted  snow. 
*  "  -Moastlins,"  for  the  most  part,  generally. 

£  Once, 


An'  all  along  o*  the  feller  ^  as  turn'd  'is 
back  of  hissen. 

Thou  slep  i'  the  chaumber  above  us,  we 
couldn't  ha'  'eard  tha  call, 

Sa  Moother  'ed  tell'd  ma  to  bring  tha 
down,  an'  thy  craiidle  an'  all; 

Fur  the  gell  o'  the  farm  'at  slep  wi'  tha 
then  'ed  gotten  wcr  leave, 

Fur  to  goii  that  night  to  'er  foiilk  by 
cause  o'  the  Christmas  Eiive; 

But  I  cleiin  forgot  tha,  my  lad,  when 
Moother  'ed  gotten  to  bed. 

An'  I  slep  i'  my  chair  hup-ou-end,  an'  the 
Freea  Traade  runu'd  i'  my  'ead. 

Till  I  dre'am'd  'at  Squire  walkt  in,  an'  I 
says  to  him  "  Squire,  }  a're  hiate," 

Then  I  seed  at  'is  fasice  \vw  as  red  as  the 
Yule-block  theer  i'  the  graate. 

An'  'e  says  "can  ya  paiiy  me  the  rent 
to-night  ?  "  an'  I  says  to  'iin  "  Noa," 

An'  'e  cotch'd  howd  hard  o'  my  hairm,'' 
"  Then  hout  to-night  tha  shall  goa." 

"Tha '11  niver,"  says  I,  "  be  a-turniu'  ma 
hout  upc'  Christmas  Eiive  "  ? 

Then  I  waiiked  an'  I  fun  it  was  Roaver 
a-tiiggiu'  an  teiiriu'  my  slieiive. 

An'  I  thowt  as  'e'd  goan  cleau-wiid,*'  fur 
I  noiiwaeys  knaw'd  'is  intent ; 

An'  I  says  ''  Git  awaiiy,  ya  beast,"  an'  I 
fetcht  'ini  a  kick  an'  'e  went. 

Then  'e  tummled  up  stairs,  fur  I  'eard 
'im,  as  if  'e  'd  'a  brokken  'is  neck, 

An'  I'd  cleiir  foigot,  little  Uick}',  thy 
chaumber  door  wouldn't  sneck;^ 

An'  I  slep'  i'  my  chair  agean  wi'  my  hairm 
hingin'  tlown  lo  ihe  floor. 

An'  I  thout  it  was  Roaver  a-tuggin'  an' 
teiiriu'  me  wuss  nor  afoor. 

An'  I  thowt  'at  I  kick'd  'im  ageiin,  but  I 
kick'd  thy  Moother  istead. 

"  What  arta  snorin'  theere  fur?  the  house 
is  afire,"  she  said. 

Thy  Moother  'ed  bean  a-iiaggin'  about 
the  iieU  o'  the  farm, 


0  Peel. 


9  Latch. 


OWD  ROA. 


791 


She  offens  'ud  spy  summiit  wrong  when 
there  warii't  uot  a  niossel  o'  harm  ; 

An'  she  did  n't  not  soh'dly  mean  I  -.vur 
gawin'  that  wniiy  to  tlie  bad, 

Fur  the  gelP  was  as  liowry  a  tiollope  as 
iver  traiipes'd  i'  the  squad. 

But  Moother  was  free  of  'er  tongue,  as  I 

offens  'ev  tell'd  'er  inysen, 
Sa  1  kep  i'  my  chair,  fur  I  thowt  she  was 
nobbut  a-iilin'  ma  then. 

An'  I  says  "I  'd  be  good  to  tha,  Bess,  if 
iha'd  onywailj.-s  let  ma  be  good," 

But  she  skelpt  ma  haiife  owor  i'  tlie  chair, 
an'  screeiid  like  a  Howl  gone 
wud2— 

"  Ya  mnn  run  fur  the  lether.'  Git  oop,  if 
ya're  onywailys  good  for  owt." 

And  I  says  "  If  I  bciint  noiiwaiiys  — not 
nowadaiiys  —  good  fur  nowt  — 

Yit  I  beant  sich  a  Nowf*  of  all  Nowts 
as  'ull  iiallus  do  as  'e  's  bid." 

"But  the  stairs  is  afire,"  she  said  ;  then  I 
seed  'er  acryiu',  I  did. 

An'  she  beiild  "  Ya  mun  saiive  little  Dick, 
an'  he  sharp  about  it  an'  all," 

Sa  I  runs  to  the  yard  fur  a  lether,  an'  sets 
'iin  ageiin  the  wall, 

An'  I  claums  an'  I  mashes  the  winder  hin, 

whin  I  gits  to  the  top, 
But  the  heiit  druv  hout  i'  my  heyes  till  I 

feald  niysen  ready  to  drop. 

Th}''  Moother  was  howdiu'  the  lether,  an' 
tellin'  me  not  to  be  skeiird, 

An'  I  wasn't  iifeiird,  or  I  thinks  leiist- 
waays  as  I  was  n't  afeard  ; 

But  I  could  n't  see  fur  the  smoiike  wheere 
thou  was  a-liggin,my  lad, 

An'  Roiiver  was  tlieere  i'  the  chaumber 
a-yowlin'  an'  yaupin'  like  mad; 

1  Tli3  girl  was  an  dirty  a  slut  as  ever  trudged 
in  the  mud,  but  there  is  a  sense  of  slatternli- 
ness in  "  traapes'd"  which  is  not  expressed  in 
"trudgfd."' 

-  She  half  overturned  me  and  shrieked  like  an 
owl  gone  mad. 

3  Ladder. 

*  A  thoroughly  insignificant  or  worthless  per- 
son. 


An'  thou  was  a-bealin*  likewise,  an' 
a-squeiilin',  as  if  tha  was  bit, 

An' it  wasn't  a  bite  but  a  burn,  fur  the 
merk  's^  o'  thy  shou'der  yit ; 

Then  I  call'd  out  Roii,  Roil,  Roil,  thaw  I 
did  n't  haiife  tliink  as  'e  'd  'ear, 

But  'e  coom'd  ihrtift/ie  Jire  wi'  my  bairn  t 
'is  mouth  to  the  winder  theere  '. 

He  coom'd  like  a  Hangel  o'  marcy  as 
soon  as  'e  'ciird  'is  uaiime, 

Or  like  tothor  Hangel  i'  Scriptur  'at 
summun  seed  i'  the  flaiime. 

When  summun  'ed  hax'd  fur  a  son,  an'  'e 

promised  a  son  to  she, 
An'  Roii  was  as  good  as  the    Hangel  i' 

saiivin'  a  son  fur  me. 

Sa  I  browt  tha  down,  an'  I  says  "  I  mu.i 

gaw  up  agfiin  fur  Roii." 
"  Gaw  up  ageiin  fur  the  varmint?"     I 

tell'd  'er  "  Yeiis  I  mun  goa." 

An'  I  claumb'd  up  agean  to  the  winder,  an* 
clemm'd  '^  owd  Roil  by  the  'eiid. 

An'  'is  'air  coom'd  off  i'  my  'auds  an'  I 
taaked  'im  at  fust  fur  deiid  ; 

Fur  'e  smell'd  like  a  herse  a-singein',  an' 
seciim'd  as  blind  as  a  poop, 

An'  haiife  on  'im  bare  as  a  bublin'.''  1 
could  n't  wakken  'im  oop, 

But  I  browt  'im  down,  an'  we  got  to  the 
barn,  fur  the  barn  wouldn't  burn 

Wi'  the  wind  Idawin'  hard  tother  waay, 
an'  the  wind  was  n't  like  to  turn. 

An'  I  kep  a-callin'  o'  Roil  till  'e  waggled 

'is  taiiil  fur  a  bit. 
But  the  coiks  kep  a-crawin'  an'  crawin' 

all  night,  an'  I  'ears  'em  yit ; 

An'  the  dogs  was  a-yowlin'  all  round,  and 
thou  was  a-squealin'  thysen. 

An'  Moother  was  naggin'  an'  groiinin'  an' 
moauin'  an'  naggin'  ageiin  ; 

An'  I  'eiird  the  bricks  an'  the  baulks^ 
rummle  down  when  the  roof  gev 
waiiy, 

5  Mark.  8  Clutched. 

5  "  Bubbling,"  a  young  unfledged  bird. 
8  Beams. 


792 


THE  RING. 


Fur  the  fire  was  a-raiigin'  an'  raavin'  an' 
roai-in'  like  judgment  daay. 

Warm  euew  theere  sewer-ly,  but  the  barn 

was  as  cowd  as  owt, 
A.n'  we  cuddled  and  huddled  togither,  an' 

happt  1  wersens  oop  as  we  mowt. 

An'  I  browt  Roa.  round,  but  Moother  'ed 

beiln  sa  soak'd  wi'  the  thaw 

At   she  cotch'd  'er  death  o'  cowd   that 

night,  poor  soul,  i'  the  straw. 

Haafe  o'  the  parish  runn'd  oop  when  the 
rigtree^'  was  tummlin'  in  — 

Too  laiite  —  but  it 'sail  ower  now  —  hall 
hower —  an'  ten  year  sin  ; 

Too  laate,  tha  mun  git  tha  to  bed,  but 
I  '11  coom  an'  I  '11  squench  the 
light, 

Fur  we  moaut  'ev  naw  moor  fires — and 
soa  little  Dick,  good-night. 


©Ebicateb  to  th  K^on.  3!.  Rusfim'Eottjrn. 

THE  RING. 

Miriam  and  her  Father. 

MIRIAM   (sinrjinrj). 
Mellow  moon  of  heaven, 

Bright  in  blue, 
Moon  of  married  hearts, 

Hear  me,  you ! 

Twelve  times  in  the  year 

Bring  me  bliss, 
Globing  Honey  Moons 

Bright  as  this. 

Moon,  you  fade  at  times 

From  the  night. 
Young  again  yon  grow 

Out  of  sight. 

Silver  crescent-curve. 

Coming  soon, 
Globe  again,  and  make 

Honey  Moon. 

•  Wrapt  ourselves. 

2  The  beam  that  runs  along  the  roof  of  the 
bouse  just  beneath  the  ridge. 


Shall  not  my  love  last. 

Moon,  with  you. 
For  ten  thousand  years 

Old  and  new  ? 

FATHER. 

And  who  was  he  with  such  love-drunken 

eyes 
They  made  a  thousand  honey  moons  of 

one? 

MIRIAM. 

The  prophet  of  his  own,  my  Hubert  —  his 
The  words,  and  mine  the  setting.     "  Air 

and  Words," 
Said  Hubert,  when  I  sang  the  song,  "are 

bride 
And  bridegroom."     Does  it  please  you  1 

FATHER. 

Mainly,  child, 
Because   I   hear  your   Mother's  voice  in 

yours. 
She ,  why,  you  shiver  tho'  the  wind 

is  west 
With  all  the  warmth  of  summer, 

MIRIAM. 

Well,  I  fel- 
on a  sudden  I  know  not  what,  a  breath 

thiit  past 
With  all  the  cold  of  winter. 

FATHER  {muttering  to  himself). 

Even  so. 
The  Ghost  in  Man,  the  Ghost  that  once 

was  Mnn, 
But  cannot  wholly  free  itself  from  Man, 
Aie  calling  to  each  other  thro'  a  dawn 
Stranger  than  earth  has  ever  seen ;  the 

veil 
Is  rending,  and  the  Voices  of  the  day 
Are  heard  across  the  Voices  of  the  dark. 
No  sudden   heaven,  nor  sudden  hell,  for 

man, 
But  thro'  the  Will  of  One  who  knows  and 

rules  — 
And  utter  knowledge  is  but  utter  love  — 
jEonian  Evolution,  swift  or  slow, 
Thro'  all  the  Spheres  —  an  ever  opening 

height, 
An  ever  lessening  earth  —  and  she  per- 
haps. 
My  Miriam,  breaks  her  latest  earthly  link 
With  me  to-day. 


THE  RING. 


793 


MIRIAM. 

You  speak  so  low,  what  is  it  ? 
Your  "Miriam  breaks"  —  is    making  a 

new  link 
Breaking  an  old  one  ? 

FATHER. 

No,  for  we,  my  child, 
Have  been  till  now  each  other's  all  iu-all. 

MIRIAM. 

And  vou   the  lifelong  guardian   of   the 
■  child. 

FATHER. 

I,  and  one  other  whom  you   have  not 
known. 

MIRIAM. 

And  who  '(  what  other  ? 

FATHER. 

Whither  are  j'ou  bound? 
For  Naples  which  we  only  left  in  May  1 

MIRIAM. 

No  !  father,  Spain,  but  Hubert  brings  me 

iiome 
With  April  and  the  swallow.     Wish  me 

joy ' 

FATHER. 

What  need  to  wish  when  Hubert  weds  in 

you 
The  heart  of  Love,  and  you  the  soul  of 

Truth 
In  Hubert? 

MIRIaM. 

Tho'  you  used  to  call  me  once 
The  lonely  maiden-Princess  of  the  wood, 
Who  meant  to  sleep  her  hundred  sum- 
mers out 
Before  a  kiss  should  wake  her. 


FATHER. 

Ay,  but  now 
Your  fairy  Prince  has  found  you,  take 
this  ring. 


MIRIAM. 

**  lo  t'  amo  "  —  and    these      diamonds  — 
beautiful ! 


"  From  Walter,"  and  for   me  from  you 
then?  , 


One  way  for  Miriam. 


Well. 


MIRIAM. 

Miriam  am  I  not  ■? 

FATHER. 

This  ring  bequeath'd  vou  bv  vour  mother, 

child, 
Was  to  be  given  you — such  her  dying 

w  ish  — 
Given  on  the  morning  when  you  came  of 

age 
Or  on  the  day  you  married.    Both  the 

days 
Now  close   in  one.     The   ring  is  doubly 

yours. 
Why  do  you  look  so  gravely  at  tlio  tower? 

MIRIAM. 

I  never  saw  it  yet  so  all  ablaze 

With  creepers  crimsoning  to  the  pinna- 
cles. 

As  if  perpetual  sunset  linger'd  there. 

And  all  ablaze  too  in  the  lake  below! 

And  how  the  birds  that  circle  round  the 
tower 

Are  cheeping  to  each  other  of  their 
flight 

To  summer  lands ! 

FATHER. 

And  that  has  made  you  grave  ? 
Fly  —  care  not.     Birds  and  brides  must 

leave  ilie  nest. 
Child,  I  am  happier  in  your  happiness 
Than  in  mine  own. 

MIRI AM. 

It  is  not  that  I 


What  else  1 

MIRIAM. 

That  chamber  in  the  tower. 

FATHER. 

What  chamber,  child  ? 
Your  nurse  is  here? 


794 


THE  RING. 


MIRIAM. 

My  Mother's  nurse  and  mine. 
She  comes  to  dress  me  in  my  bridal  veil, 

FATHER. 

What  did  she  say  ? 

MIRIAM. 

She  said,  that  you  and  I 
Had  been  abroad  for  my  poor  health  so 

lonn; 
She  fear'd  I  had  forgotten   her,  and   I 

ask'd 
About  my  Mother,  and  she  t,aid, "  Thy  hair 
Is  golden  like  thy  Mother's,  not  so  fine." 

FATHKR. 

Wiat  then  ?  what  more  ? 

MIRIAM. 

She  said  —  perhaps  indeed 
She  wander'd,  having  wauder'd  now  so 

far 
Beyond  the  common  date  of  death  —  that 

you. 
When  I  was  smaller  than  the  statuette 
Of    my   denr  Mother  on   your  bracket 

here  — 
You   took   me   to  that  chamber  in  the 

tower, 
The  topmost  —  a  chest  there,  by  which 

you  knelt  — 
And  there  were  books  and  dresses  —  left 

to  mc, 
A  ring  too  which  you  kiss'd,  and  I,  she 

snid, 
I  babbled.  Mother,  Mother — as  I  used 
To  prattle  to  her  picture  — stretch'd  my 

hands 
As  if  I  saw  her ;  then  a  woman  came 
Aiid  caught  me  from  my  nurse.     I  hear 

her  yet  — 
A  sound  of  anger  like  a  distant  storm. 

FATHER. 

Garrulous  old  crone. 

MIRIAM. 

Poor  nurse ! 

FATHER. 

I  bade  her  keep. 
Like  a  seal'd  book,  all  mention  of  the 

rinjr, 
For  I  myself  would  tell  you  all  to-day.       ; 


MIRIAM. 

"  She  too  might  speak  to-day,"  she  mnm 

bled.     Still, 
I  scarce  have  learnt  the  title  of  your  book, 
But  you  will  turn  the  pages. 

FATHER. 

Ay,  to  day  1 
I  brought  you  to  that  chamber  on  youi 

third 
Septeml)er  birthday  with  your  nurse,  and 

felt 
An  icy  breath  play  on  me,  while  I  stoopt 
To  take  and  kiss  the  ring. 


MIRIAM. 


lo  t'  amo  ? 


This  very  ring 


FATHER. 

Yes,  for  some  wild  hope  was  mine 
That,  in  the  misery  of  my  married  life, 
Miriam  your  Mother  might  appear  to  me. 
She  came  to  you,  not  me.     The  storm, 

you  hear 
Far-off,  is  Muriel  —  your  step-mother's 

voice. 

MIRIAM. 

Vext,  that  you  thought  my  Mother  came 

to  me  ? 
Or  at  my  crying  "  Mother  ?  "  or  to  find 
My  Mother's   diamonds  hidden  from  her 

there, 
Like  worldly  beauties   in  the  Cell,  not 

shown 
To  dazzle  all  that  see  them  ? 

FATHER. 

Wait  a  while. 
Your  Mother  and  step-mother —  Miriam 

Erne 
And  Muriel  Erne  —  the  two  were  cousins 

—  lived 
With  Muriel's  mother  on  the  down,  that 

sees 
A  thousand  squares  of  corn  and  meadow, 

far 
As  the  gray  deep,  a  landscape  which  youl 

eyes 
Have  niany  a  time  ranged  over  when  a 

babe. 

MIRIAM. 

I  climb'd  the  hill  with  Hubert  yesterday. 
And  from  the  thousand  sq.uares,  one  sif 
lent  voice 


THE  RING. 


796 


Came  on  the  wind,  and  seem'd  to  say 

"Again." 
We  saw  far  off  an  old  forsaken  bouse. 
Then  home,  and  past  tlie  ruiu'd  mill. 

FATHER. 

And  there 
I  found  these  cousins  often  by  the  brook, 
For  Miriam  sketch'd  and  Muriel  threw  the 

fly; 

The  girls  of  equal  age,  but  one  was  fair, 
And  one  was  dark,  and  both  were  beauti- 
ful. 
No  voice  for  either  spoke  within  my  heart 
Then,  for  the  surface  eye,  that  only  doats 
On  outward  beauty,  glancing  from  the  one 
To  the  other,  knew  not  that  which  pleased 

it  most, 
The  raven  ringlet  or  the  gold ;  but  both 
Were  dowerless,  and  myself,  I  used  to 

walk 
This      Terrace  —  morbid,     melancholy; 

mine 
And  yet  not  mine  the  hall,  the  farm,  the 

field  ; 
For  all  that  ample  woodland  whisper'd 

"  debt," 
The  brook  that  feeds  this  lakelet  mur- 

mur'd  "  debt," 
And  in  yon  arching  avenue  of  old  elms, 
Tho'  mine,  not   mine,  I  heard  tiie  sober 

rook 
And  carrion  crow  cry  "  Mortgage." 


Visited  on  the  children ! 


Father's  fault 


FATHER. 

Ay,  but  then 
A    kinsman,   dying,   summon'd    me    to 

Rome  — 
He  left  me  wealth  —  and  while  I  journey'd 

hence, 
And  saw  the  world  fly  by  me  like  a  dream, 
And  wliile  I  communed  with  my  truest 

self, 
I  woke  to  all  of  'ruest  in  myself. 
Till,  in  the  gleara  of  those   mid-summer 

dawns, 
The  form  of  Muriel  faded,  and  the  face 
Of  Miriam  grew  upon  me,  till  I  knew ; 
And  past  and  future  mix'd  in  Heaven  and 

made 
The  rosy  twilight  of  a  perfect  day. 


MIRIAM. 

So  glad  ?  no  tear  for  him,  who  left  you 

wealth, 
Your  kinsman  ? 

FATHER. 

I  had  seen  the  man  but  once ; 
He  loved  my  name  not  me  ;  and  then  I 

pass'd 
Home,  and  thro'  Venice,  where  a  jeweller, 
So  far  gone  down,  or  so  far  up  in  life, 
That  he  was  nearing  his  own  hundred, 

sold 
This  ring  to  me,  then  laugh'd  "  the  ring 

is  weird." 
And  weird  and  worn  and  wizard-like  was 

he. 
"Why  weird  1 "    I  ask'd  him;    and  he 

said  "  The  souls 
Of    two    repentant    Lovers    guard    the 

ring ; " 
Then  with  a  ribald  twinkle  in  his  bleak 

eyes  — 
"  And  if  you  give  the  ring  to  any  maid. 
They  still  remember  what  it  cost  them 

lure, 
And   bind  the  maid  to  love  you  by  the 

ring; 
And  if  the   ring   were   stolen   from  the 

maid. 
The  theft  were  death  or  madness  to  the 

thief. 
So  sacred  those  Ghost  Lovers  hold  the 

iiiit." 
And  then  he  told  their  legend : 

"  Long  ago 
Two  lovers  parted  by  a  scurrilous  tale 
Had   quarrell'd,  till  the   man    repenting 

sent 
This  ling  '  lo  t'amo'  to  his  best  beloved, 
And   sent  it  on   her  birthday.      She   in 

wrath 
T?eturn'd  it  on  her  birthday,  and  that  day 
His  death-day,  v.hen,  half-frenzied  by  the 

ring. 
He  wildly  fought  a  rival  suitor,  him 
The  causer  of  that  scandal,  foiighi  and 

fell; 
And  she  Miat  came  to  part  them  all  too 

late. 
And  found  a  corpse  and  silence,  drew  the 

ring 
From   his   dead   finger,  wore   it  till   her 

death. 


796 


THE  RING. 


Shrined   him   within  the   temple  of  her 

heart, 
Made  every  moment  of  her  after  life 
A  virgin  victim  to  his  memory, 
And  dying  rose,  and  rear'd  her  arms,  and 

cried 
'  I  see  him,  lo  t'  amo,  lo  t'  amo.'  " 

Miriam. 
Legend   or   true  1    so  tender   should   be 

true  ! 
Did  he  believe  it  ?  did  you  ask  him  ? 

Father. 

Ay! 
But   that   half    skeleton,  like   a  barren 

ghost 
From  out  the  fleshless  world  of  spirits, 

laugh'd : 
A  hollow  laughter ! 

Miriam. 

Vile,  so  near  the  ghost 
Himself,  to  laugh  at  love  in  death !     But 
youl 

Father. 
"Well,  as  the  bygone  lover  thro'  this  ring 
Had  sent  his  ciy  for  her  forgiveness,  I 
Would  call  thro'  this  "  lo  t'  amo  "  to  the 

heart 
Of  Miriam  ;  then  I  bade  the  man  engrave 
"  From  Walter"  on  the  ring,  and  send  it 

—  wrote 
Name,  surname,  all  as  clear  as  noon,  but 

he  — 
Some  yonuger  hand  must  have  engraven 

the  ring  — 
His  fingers  were  so  stifFen'd  by  the  frost 
Of  seven    and    ninety  winters,    that   he 

scrawl'd 
A   "Miriam"  that  might  seem  a  "Mu- 
riel ;  " 
And  Muriel  claim'd  and  open'd  what  I 

meaut 
For  Miriam,  took  the  ring,  and  flaunted  it 
Before  that  oilier  wlioiu  I  loved  and  love. 
A  mnuntain  stay'd  me  here,  a  minster 

til  ere, 
A  galleried  ]Kilace,  or  a  battlefield, 
Where  stood  the  sheaf  of  I'eace  :  but  — 

coming  home  — 
And  on  your  Mother's  birthday  —  all  but 

yours  — 
A  week  betwixt  —  and  when  the  tower 

as  now 


Was  all  ablaze  with  crimson  to  the  roof, 
And  all  ablaze  too  plunging  in  the  lake 
Head-foremost  —  who   were    those    that 

stood  between 
The  tower  and  that  rich  phantom  of  the 

tower  ? 
Muriel  aud  Miriam,  each  in  white,  and 

like 
May-blossoms   in   mid  autumn  —  was  it 

they  1 
A  light  shot  upward  on  them  from  the 

lake. 
What  sparkled  there  ?   whose  hand  was 

that  ?  they  stood 
So  close   together.      I   am   not   keen  of 

sight. 
But  coming    nearer  —  Muriel    had    the 

ring  — 
"  O  Miriam !  have  you   given  your  ring 

to  her  ■? 
O  Miriam ! "     Miriam  redden'd,  Muriel 

clench'd 
The  hand  that  wore  it,  till  I  cried  again : 
"O   Miriam,  if    you   love    me  take   the 

ring!"' 
She  glanced  at  me,  at  Muriel,  and  was 

mute. 
"  Nay,  if  you  cannot  love  me,  let  it  be." 
Then  —  Muriel    standing    ever    statue- 
like— 
She  turn'd,  and  in  her  soft  imperial  way 
And  saying   gently:    "Muriel,  by  your 

leave," 
Unclosed  the  hand,  and  from  it  drew  the 

ring, 
And  gave  it  me,  who  pass'd  it  down  her 

own, 
"  lo  t'  amo,  all  is  well  then."    Muriel  fled. 

Miriam. 

Poor  Muriel  ! 

Father. 
Ay,  poor  Muriel  when  you  hear 

What   follows !     Miriam  loved  me  from 
tiie  first, 

Not  thro'  the  ring ;  but  on  her  marriage- 
morn 

This  birthday,  death-day,  and   betrothal 
ring, 

Laid  on  her  table  overnight,  was  gone  ; 

And  after  hours  of  search  aud  doubt  and 
threats. 

And    hubbub,    Muriel    enter'd   with    it, 
"  See ! — 

Found  in  a  chink  of  that  old  moulder'd 
floor  1  " 


THE  RING. 


797 


My  Miriam  uoclded  with  a  pitying;  smile, 
As  who  should  say  "that  those  who  lose 

can  find." 
Then  I  and   she  were  married  for  a 

year, 
One    year  without    a    storm,  or  even  a 

cloud  ; 
And  you  my  Miriiun  horn  within  the  year ; 
And  she  my  Miriam  dead  within  the  year. 

I  sat  beside  her  dyinp:,  and  she  gaspt : 
"  The  books,  the  miniature,  the  lace  are 

hers. 
My  ring  too  when  she  comes  of  age,  or 

when 
She  marries;  you — you  loved  me,  kept 

your  word. 
You  love  me  still  "  lo  t'amo."  —  Muriel 

—  no  — 
She  cannot  love  ;  she  loves  her  own  hard 

self. 
Her  firm  will,  her  fix'd  purpose.    Promise 

me, 
Miriam  not  Muriel  —  she  shall  have  the 

ring." 
And  there  the  light  of  other  life,  which 

lives 
Beyond  our  burial  and  our  buried  eyes, 
Gleam'd   for  a  moment   in   her  own  on 

earth. 
I  swore  tlie  vow,  then  with  my  latest  kiss 
Upon  them,  closed  her  eyes,  which  would 

not  close, 
But  kept  their  watch  upon  the  ring  and 

you. 
Your  birthday  was  her  death-day. 

MiKIAM. 

O  poor  Mother ! 
And  you,  poor  desolate  Father,  and  poor 

me, 
The   little  senseless,  worthless,  wordless 

babe, 
Saved  when  your  life  was  wreck'd  ! 

Father. 

Desolate  1  yes ! 
Desolate  as  that  sailor,  whom  the  storm 
Had  parted  from  his  comrade  in  the  boat. 
And  (hish'd  half   dead  on  barren  sands, 

was  I. 
Nay,  you  were  my  one  solace ;  only  —  you 
Were    always   ailing.      Muriel's   mot>her 

sent, 
And  sure  am  I,  by  Muriel,  one  day  came 
And  saw  you,  shook  her  head,  and  patted 

yours. 


And  smiled,  and  making  with  a  kindly 

pinch 
Each    poor    pale    cheek    a    momentary 

rose  — 
"  That  should  be  fix'd,"  she  said  ;  "  your 

pretty  bud, 
So  blighted  here,  would  flower  into  full 

health 
Among  our  heath  and  bracken.     Let  her 

come ! 
And  we  will  feed  her  with  our  mountain 

air. 
And   send  her  home  to  you  rejoicing." 

No  — 
We  could  not  part.     And  once,  when  you 

my  girl 
Rode  on   my  shoulder  home  —  the  tiny 

fist 
Had  graspt  a  daisy  from  your  Mother's 

grave  — 
By  the  lych-gate  was  Muriel.     "  Ay,"  she 

said, 
"  Among  the  tombs  in  this  damp  vale  of 

yours ! 
You  scorn  my  Mother's  warning,  but  the 

child 
Is  paler  tlian  before.      We  often  walk 
In  open  sun,  and  see  beneath  our  feet 
The  mist  of  autumn  gather   from  your 

lake, 
And  shroud  the  tower;  and  once  we  only 

saw 
Your   gilded    vane,  a  light    above    the 

mist"  — 
(Our  old  bright  bird  that  still  is  veering 

tlierc 
Above   his  four  gold   letters)  "  and  the 

light," 
She  said,  "was  like  that  light" — and 

there  she  paused, 
And  long;  till  I  believing  that  the  girl's 
Lean  fancy,  groping  for  it,  could  not  find 
One  likeness,  laugh'd  a  little  and  found 

her  two  — 
"A  warrior's  crest   above   the  cloud  of 

war  "  — 
"  A  fiery  phoenix  rising  from  the  smoke, 
The    pyre    lie    burnt   in."  —  "Nay,"    she 

said,  "  the  light 
That  glimmers  on  the  marsli  and  on  the 

grave." 
And  spoke  no  more,  but  turn'd  and  pass'd 

away. 
Miriam,  I  am  not  surely  one  of  those 
Caught  by  the  flower  that  closes  on  the 

fly. 


798 


THE  RING. 


But  after  ten  slow  weeks  her  fix'd  intent, 
In  aiming  at  an  all  but  hopeless  mark 
To   strike  it,  struck ;   I  took,  I  left  you 

there ; 
I  came,  I  went,  was  happier  day  by  day  ; 
For  Muriel  nursed  you  with  a  mother's 

care; 
Till   on   that  clear  and  heather-scented 

height 
The  rounder  cheek  had  brighten'd  into 

bloom. 
She  always  came  to  meet   me  carrying 

you. 
And  all   her  talk  was  of   the  babe  she 

loved ; 
So,  following  her  old    pastime   of    the 

brook, 
She   threw  the   fly  for  me;  but  oftener 

left 
That  angling  to  the  mother.     "Muriel's 

health 
Had   weaken'd,    nursing    little    Miriam. 

Strange ! 
She  used  to  shun  the  wailing  babe,  and 

doats 
On  this  of  yours."     But  when   the  ma- 
tron saw 
That  hinted  love  was  only  wasted  bait. 
Not   risen   to,  she  was  bolder.      "  Ever 

since 
You  sent  the  fatal  ring"  —  I  told   her 

"sent 
To  Miriam,"  "  Doubtless  —  ay,  but  ever 

since 
In  all  the  world  my  dear  one  sees  but 

you  — 
In  your  sweet  babe  she  finds  but  you  — 

she  makes 
Her  heart  a  mirror  that  reflects  but  you." 
And  then  the  tear  fell,  the  voice  iiroke. 

Ilcr  heart ! 
I  gazed  into  tlic  mirror,  as  a  man 
Who  sees  his  face  in  water,  and  a  stone, 
Tliat  glances  from  tlie  bottom  of  tlie  i)Oo!, 
Strike  upward  thro'  the  shadow  ;  yet  at 

last. 
Gratitude — loneliness  —  desire  to  keep 
So  skilled  a  nurse  about  you  always  — 

nay ! 
Some  half  remorseful  kind  of  pity  too  — 
Well !  well,  you  know  I  married  Muriel 

Erne. 
"I  take  thee  Muriel  for  my  wedded 

wife  "  — 
I  had   forgotten   it  was  your   birthday, 

child  — 


When   all   at    once  with  some   electric 
thrill 

A   cold   air  pass'd  between  us,  and  the 
hands 

Fell  from   each  other,  and  were  join'd 
again. 
No   second  cloudless  honeymoon  was 
mine. 

For  by  and  by  she  sickeu'd  of  the  farce, 

She  dropt  the  gracious  mask  of  mother- 
hood, 

She  came  no  more  to  meet  me,  carrying 

you, 

Nor  ever  cared  to  set  you  on  her  knee, 
Nor  ever  let  you  gambol  in  her  sight, 
Nor  ever  clieer'd  you  with  a  kindly  smile, 
Nor  ever  ceased  to  clamor  for  the  ring  ; 
Wliy  had  I  sent  the  ring  at  first  to  lier  ? 
Why  had  I  made  her  love  me  thro'  the 

ring. 
And  then   had  changed  ?  so   fickle   are 

men  —  tlie  best ! 
Not  she  —  but  now  my   love  was  hers 

again. 
The   ring  by   right,  she  said,  was  hers 

again. 
At   times   too   shrilling   in    her  angrier 

moods, 
"  That  weak  and  watery  nature  love  you  ? 

No! 
'  lo  t'  amo,'  Jo  t'  amo ' ! "  flung  h.^rself 
Against  my  heart,  but  often  while  her  lips 
Were    warm    upon    my    cheek,   an    icy 

breath, 
As  from  the  grating  of  a  sepulchre. 
Past  over  both.     I  told  her  of  my  vow. 
No  pliable  idiot  I  to  break  my  vow ; 
But  still  she  made  her  ontcry  for  the  ring; 
For  one  monotonous  fancy  madden'd  her, 
Till  I  myself  was  madden'd  with  her  cry, 
And  even  that  "  lo  t'  amo,"  those  three 

sweet 
Italian  words,  became  a  weariness. 
My  people  too  were  scared  with  eerie 

sounds, 
A  footstep,  a  low  throbbing  in  the  walls, 
A  noise  of  falling  weights  that  never  fcxl 
Weird  whispers,  bells  that  rang  without 

a  hand. 
Door-handles  turn'd  when  none  was  at 

the  door, 
And  bolted  doors  that  open'd  of  them- 

selves : 
And  one  betwixt  the  dark  and  light  had 

seen 
Her,  bending  by  the  cradle  of  her  babe. 


J 


THE  RING. 


799 


MIRIAM. 

And  I  remember  once  that  beiu;^  waked 
By  noises  j.ii   the   house  —  and   no   one 

near  — 
I  cried  for  nurse,  and  felt  a  gentle  hand 
Fall  on  ni}'  forehead,  atid  a  i.ud(len  face 
Look'd   in   upon   me  like   a  gleam   and 

pass'd. 
And  I  was  quieted,  and  slept  again. 
Or  is  it  some  half  memory  of  a  dream  1 

FATHER. 

Your  fifth  September  birthday. 


The  hand,  —  my  Mother. 


And  the  face. 


FATHER. 

Miriam,  on  that  day 
Two  lovers  parted  by  no  scurrilous  tale  — 
Mere  want  of  gold  — and  still  for  twenty 

years 
Bound  by  the  golden  cord  of  their  first 

love  — 
Had  ask'd  us  to  their  marriage,  and  to 

share 
Their  marriage-banquet.      Muiiel,  paler 

then 
Than    ever  you   were    in  your    cradle, 

nioan'd, 
"I  am  fitter  for  my  bed,  or  for  my  grave, 
I  cannot  go,  goyou."  And  then  she  rose. 
She  clung  to  me  with  such  a  hard  em- 
brace, 
So  lingeiingly  long,  that  half-amazed 
I  parted  from  her,  and  I  went  alone. 
And  when    the    bridegroom    murmur'd, 

"  With  this  ring," 
I  felt  for  what  I  could  not  find,  the  key. 
The  guardian  of  her  relics,  of  her  ring. 
I  kept  it  as  a  sacred  amulet 
About  me,  —  gone  !  and  gone  in  that  em- 
brace ! 
Then,  hurrying  home,  I  found  her  not  in 

house 
Or  garden  — up  the  tower  —  an  icy  air 
Fled  by  me.  —  There,  the  chest  was  open 

—  all 
The  sacred  relics  tost  about  the  floor  — 
Among  them  Muriel  lying  on  her  face  — 
I  raised  her,  call'd  her  "  Muriel,  Muriel 

wake ! " 
The  fatal  ring  lay  neat  her;  the  glazed 
eye 


Glared  at  me  as  in  horror.     Dead!    1 

took 
And  chafed  the   freezing  hand.     A  red 

mark  ran 
All  round  one  finger  pointed  straight,  the 

rest 
Were  crumpled  inwards.     Dead  !  —  and 

maybe  stung 
With  some  remorse,  had  stolen,  worn  ths 

ring  — 
Then  torn  it  from  her  finger,  or  as  if  — 
For  never  had  J.  seen  her  show  remorse -= 
Asif  — 

MIRIAM. 

—  those  two  Ghost  lovers  — 


Lovers  yet  — 

MIRIAM. 

Yes,  yes ! 

FATHEB. 

—  but  dead  so  long,  gone  up  so  far. 
That  now  their  ever-rising  life  lias  dwarf'd 
Or  lost  the  moment  of  their  past  on  earth. 
As  we  forget  our  wail  at  being  born. 
As  if — 

MIRIAM. 

A  dearer  ghost  had  — 

FATHER. 

—  wrench'd  it  away. 

MIRIAM. 

Had  floated  in  with  sad  reproachful  eyts. 
Till  from  her  own  hand  she  had  torn  the 

ring 
In  fright,  and  fallen  dead.     And  J  myself 
Am  half  afraid  to  wear  it. 

FATHER. 

Well,  no  more 

No  bridal  music  this !  but  fear  aot  you  ! 

You  have  the  ring  she  guarded ;  that- 
poor  link 

With  earth  is  broken,  and  has  left  hei 
free. 

Except  that,  still  drawn  downward  for  an 
hour, 

Her  spirit  hovering  by  the  church,  where 
she 

Was  married  too,  may  linger,  till  she  sees 

Her  maiden  coming  like  a  Queen,  who 
leaves 


800 


FORLORN. 


Some  colder  province  in  the  North  to  gain 
Her  capital  city,  where  the  loyal  bells 
Clash  welcome  —  linger,  till  her  own,  tlie 

babe 
She  lean'd  to  from  her  Spiritual  sphere, 
Her  lonely  maiden-Princess,  crown'd  with 

flowers, 
Hfts  enter'd  on  the  larger  woman-world 
Uf  wives  and  mothers. 

But  the  bridal  veil  — 
Your  nurse   is  Malting.     Kiss  me  child 
and  go. 

FORLORN. 


'  He  is  fled  -  I  wish  him  dead  — 
He  that  wroiiglit  my  ruin  — 

O  the  flattery  and  the  craft 
Which  were  my  undoing  .  .  . 
In  tlie  night,  in  the  night, 
When  the  storms  are  blowing. 


"-■  Who  was  witness  of  the  crime  ? 
Who  shall  now  reveal  it  ? 
He  is  fled,  or  he  is  dead, 

Marriage  will  conceal  it  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  in  the  night. 
While  the  gloom  is  growing." 


Catherine,  Catherine,  in  the  night 
What  is  this  you  're  dreaming  ? 

There  is  laughter  down  in  Hell 
At  your  simple  scheming  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  in  the  night. 
When  the  ghosts  are  fleeting. 


You  to  place  a  hand  in  his 

Like  an  honest  woman's. 
You  that  lie  with  wasted  lungs 

Waiting  for  your  summons  . 

In  the  night,  0  the  night ! 

O  the  deathwatch  beating  ! 


There  will  come  a  witness  soon 
Hard  to  be  confuted. 

All  the  world  will  hear  a  voice 
Scream  you  are  polluted  .  .  , 
In  the  night !  O  the  night, 
When  the  owls  are  wailing  ! 


Shame  and  marriage,  Shame  and  mar. 

riage. 
Fright  and  foul  dissembling. 
Bantering  bridesman,  reddening  priest 
Tower  and  altar  trembling  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  O  the  night. 
When  the  mind  is  failinir! 


Mother,  dare  you  kill  your  child? 

How  your  hand  is  shaking ! 
Daughter  of  the  seed  of  Cain, 

What  is  this  you're  taking  ?  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night. 

While  the  house  is  sleeping. 

VIII. 

Dreadful !  has  it  come  to  this, 

O  unhappy  creature  ? 
You  that  would  not  tread  on  a  worm 

For  your  gentle  nature  .  .  , 

In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

O  the  night  of  weeping ! 


Murder  would  not  veil  your  sin, 

Marriage  will  not  hide  it, 
Earth  and  Hell  will  brand  your  name, 

VVretch  you  must  abide  it  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

Long  before  the  dawning. 


Up,  get  up,  and  tell  him  all. 
Tell  him  you  were  lying ! 

Do  not  die  with  a  lie  in  your  mouth. 
You  that  know  you  're  dying  .  .  . 
In  the  night,  O  the  night. 
While  the  grave  is  yawning. 


No  —  you  will  not  die  before, 
Tho'  you  '11  ne'er  be  stronge: 

You  will  live  till  that  is  born, 
Then  a  little  longer  .  .  . 
In  the  niglit,  O  the  night. 
While  the  Fiend  is  prowling. 


Death  and  marriage.  Death  and  marriage! 

Funeral  hearses  rolling ! 
Black  with  bridal  favors  mixt ! 

Bridal  bells  with  tolling  1  .  .  . 


HAPPY. 


801 


In  the  night,  O  the  night, 

When  the  wolves  are  liowling. 

XIII. 

Up,  p;et  up,  the  time  is  short. 

Tell  him  now  or  never! 
Tell  him  all  before  you  die, 

Lest  you  die  for  ever  .  .  . 

In  the  night,  U  the  night, 

Where  there  's  no  forgetting 


lip  she  got,  and  wrote  him  all. 
All  her  tale  of  sadness, 

Blistei'd  every  word  with  tears, 
And  eased  lier  heart  of  maduess 
In  tlie  night,  and  nigh  the  dawn, 
And  while  the  moon  was  setting. 


My   roses  —  will   he   take   them   now — ■ 
mine,  his  — from  off  the  tree 
We  planted  both  together,  happy  in  oui' 
marriage  morn  1 
O  God,  I  could  blaspheme,  for  he  fought 
Thy  fight  for  Thee, 
And  Thou  hast  made  him  leper  to  cons 
pass  liira  with  scoru  — 


Hast  spared  the  flesh  of  thousands,  the 

coward  and  the  base, 
And  set  a  crueller  mark  than  Cain's  on 

him,  the  good  and  brave! 
He  sees  me,  waves  me  from  him.     I  will 

front  him  face  to  face. 
You   need   not   wave  me   from   you.     I 

would  leap  into  your  grave. 


HAPPY. 


THE    LEPEK  S    BlilDE. 


Why  wail  you,  pretty  plover  1  and  what 
is  it  that  you  fear? 
Is  he  sick  your  mate  like  mine  ?    have 
you  lost  him,  is  he  fled  1 
And  there  —  the   heron   rises  from   his 
watch  beside  the  mere. 
And  flies  above  the  leper's  hut,  where 
lives  the  livinjr-dead. 


Come  back,  nor  let  me  know  it!  would  he 
live  and  die  alone  ? 
And  has  he   not  forgiven  me  yet,  his 
over-jealous  bride. 
Who  am,  and  was,  and  will  be  his,  his 
own  and  only  own, 
To  share  liis  living  death  with  him,  die 
with  him  side  by  side  1 


Is  that  the  leper's  hut  on  the  solitary 
moor, 
Where  noble  Ulric  dwells  forlorn,  and 
wears  the  leper's  weed  1 
The  door  i .  open.     He !  is  he  standing  at 
the  door, 
My  soldier  of  the  Cross  1  it  is  he  and 
he  indeed ! 


My  warrior  of  the  Holy  Cross  and  of  the 
con({Uering  sword. 
The  ro.ses  that  you  cast  aside  —  once 
more  I  bring  you  these. 
No  nearer  ?  do  you  scorn  me  when  you 
tell  me,  O  my  lord. 
You  would  not  mar  the  beauty  of  your 
bride  with  your  disease. 


You  say  your  body  is  so  foul  —  then  here 

I  stand  apart. 
Who  yearn  to  lay  my  loving  head  upon 

your  leprous  breast. 
The  leper  plague  may  scale  my  skin  but 

never  taint  my  heart ; 
Your  body  is  not  foul  to  me,  and  body  is 

foul  at  best. 


I  loved  you  first  when  young  and  fair,  bu 
now  I  love  you  most ; 
The  fairest  flesh  at  last  is  filth  on  whicli 
the  worm  will  feast; 
This  poor  rib-grated  dungeon  of  the  holy 
human  ghost. 
This  house  with  all  its  hateful  needs  no 
cleaner  than  the  beast. 


This  coarse  diseaseful  creature  which  in 
Eden  was  divine. 


802 


HAPPY. 


This  Satan-haunted  ruin,  this  little  city 
of  sewers, 
This  wall  of  solid  flesh  that  comes  between 
your  soul  and  mine. 
Will  vanish  and  give  place  to  the  beauty 
that  endures, 


The  beauty  that  endures  on  the  Spiritual 
height, 
When  we  shall  stand  transfigured,  like 
Christ  on  Herniun  iiill. 
And  moving  each  to  music,  soul  in  soul 
and  light  in  light. 
Shall  flash  thro'  one  another  in  a  mo- 
ment as  we  will. 


Foul !  foul !  the  word  was  yours  not  mine, 
I  worship  that  right  hand 
Which  fell'd  the  foes  before  you  as  the 
woodman  fells  the  wood, 
And  sway'd  the  sword  that  lighten 'd  back 
the  sun  of  Holy  land, 
And  clove  the  IMoslem  crescent  moon, 
and  changed  it  into  blood. 


And  once  I  worshipt   all   too  well   this 

creature  of  decay. 
For  Age  will  chink  the  face,  and  Death 

will  freeze  the  supplest  limbs  — 
Yet  you  in  your  mid  manhood  —  0  the 

grief  when  yesterday 
They  bore  the  Cross  before  you  to  the 

chant  of  funeral  hvnius. 


"  Libera  me,   Domine ! "    you  sang   the 
Psalm,  and  when 
The  Priest  pronounced  v'ou  dead,  and 
flung  the  mould  upon  your  feet, 
A  beauty  came  upon  your  face,  not  that 
of  living  men, 
But  seen  upon  the  silent  brow  when 
life  has  ceased  to  beat. 


"Libera  nos,  Domine" — you  knew  not 

one  was  there 
Who  saw  you  kneel  beside  your  bier, 

and  weeping  scarce  could  see  ; 
May  I  come  a  little  nearer,  I  that  heard, 

and  changed  the  prayer 


And  sang  the  married  "nos"  for  the 
solitary  "  me." 


Ml/  beauty  marred  by  you  ?  by  you !   60 
be  it.     All  is  well 
If  I  lose  it  and  myself  in  the  highei: 
beauty,  yours. 
My   beauty  lured   that  falcon   from  hit 
eyry  on  the  fell. 
Who  never  caught  one  gleam  of  the 
beautv  which  endures  — 


The  Count  who  sought  to  snap  the  bond 
that  link'd  us  life  to  life, 
Who  whisper'd  me  "your  Ulric  loves" 
—  a  little  nearer  still  — 
He   hiss'd,   "  Let   us   revenge    ourselves, 
your  Ulric  woos  my  wife  "  — 
A  lie  by  winch   he   thought  he  could 
subdue  me  to  his  will, 

XVII. 

I  knew  that  you  were  near  me  when  I  let 
him  kiss  my  brow  ; 
Well,  he  kiss'd  me  on  the  lips,  1  was 
jealous,  anger'd,  vain. 
And  I  meant  to  make  i/oii  jealous.      Are 
you  jealous  of  me  now? 
Your  pardon,  O  my  love,  if  I  ever  gave 
you  pain. 

XVXII. 

You  never  once  accused  me,  but  I  wept 
alone,  and  sigh'd 
In  the  winter  of  the  Present  for  the 
summer  of  the  Past ; 
That  icy  winter  silence  —  how  it  froze 
you  from  your  bride, 
Tho'  I  made  one  barren  effort  to  break 
it  at  the  last. 


I  brought  you,  you  remember,  these  roses, 

when  I  knew 
You  were  parting  for  the  war,  and  j'ou 

took  them  tho'  you  frown'd  ; 
Y''ou  frown'd  and  yet  you  kiss'd   them. 

All  at  once  the  trumpet  blew, 
And  you  spurr'd   your  fiery   horse,  and 

you  hurl'd  them  to  the  ground. 


You  parted  for  the  Holy  War  without  a 
word  to  me. 


HAPPY. 


803 


And  clear  myself  unask'd  —  not  I.     My 

nature  was  too  proud. 
And  him  I  saw  but  once  again,  and  far 

away  was  he, 
When  I  was  praying  in  a  storm  —  the 

crash  was  long  and  loud  — 


That  God  would  ever  slant  His  bolt  from 
falling  on  your  head  — 
Then    I   lifted    up    my    eyes,    he  was 
coming  down  tiie  fell  — 
I  clapt  my  hands.     The  sudden  tire  from 
Heaven  had  dash"d  him  dead, 
And  sent  him  charr'd  and  blasted  to 
the  deathless  fire  of  Hell. 

XXII. 

See,  I  sinn'd  but  for  a  moment.     I  re- 
pented and  repent. 
And  trust  myself  forgiven  by  the  God 
to  whom  I  kneel. 
A  little  nearer  ?    Yes.    I  shall  hardly  be 
content 
Till  I  be  leper  like  yourself,  my  love, 
from  head  to  heel. 

XXIII. 

O  foolish  dreams,  that  you,  that  I,  would 
slight  our  marriage  oath  : 
I  held  you  at  that  moment  even  dearer 
than  before  ; 

Now  God  has  made  you  leper  in  His  lov- 
ing care  for  both, 

That    we    might    cling    together,   never 
doubt  each  other  more. 

XXIV. 

The  Priest,  who  join'd  you  to  the  dead, 
has  join'd  our  hands  of  old  ; 
If  man  and  wife  be  but  one  flesh,  let 
mine  be  leprous  too. 
As  dead  from  all  the  human  race  as  if  be- 
neath the  mould ; 
If  you  be  dead,  then  I  am  dead,  who 
only  live  for  you. 

XXV. 

Would  Earth  tho'  hid  in  cloud  not  be  fol- 

low'd  by  the  Moon  1 
The   leech    forsake  the  dying  bed  for 

terror  of  his  life  ? 
The  shadow  leave  the  Substance  in  the 

brooding  light  of  noon  ? 


Or  if  /  had  been  the  leper  would  you 
have  left  the  wife  1 


Not  take  them  1     Still  you  wave  me  oflf 
—  poor  roses  —  must  I  go  — 
I  have  worn  them  year  by  year  —  from 
the  bush  we  both  had  set  — 
What  ?  fling  them  to  you  ?  —  well  —  that 
were  hardly  g'-acious.     No  ! 
Your  plague  but  passes  by  ',iie  touch. 
A  liitle  nearer  yet ! 

XXVII. 

There,  there !  he  buried  you,  the  Priest ; 
the  Priest  is  not  to  blame, 
He  joins  us  once  again,  to  his  either 
office  true : 
I  thank  him.     I  am  happy,  happy.     Kiss 
me.     In  the  name 
Of  the  eveilasiiug  God,  I  will  live  and 
die  with  you. 


[Dean  Milman  has  remarked  that  the  protec- 
tion and  care  afforded  by  the  Church  to  this 
blighted  race  of  lepers  was  among  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  its  offices  during  the  Middle  Ages.  The 
leprosy  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centu- 
ries was  supposed  to  be  a  legacy  of  the  crusades, 
but  was  in  all  probability  the  offspring  of  mea- 
gre and  unwholesome  diet,  miserable  lodging  and 
clothing,  physical  and  moral  degradation.  The 
services  of  the  Church  iu  the  seclusion  of  these 
unhappy  sufferers  were  most  affecting.  The 
stern  duty  of  looking  to  the  public  welfare  i.s 
tempered  with  exquisite  compassion  for  the  vic- 
tims of  this  loathsome  disease.  The  ritual  for 
the  sequestration  of  the  leprous  differed  little 
from  the  burial  service.  After  the  leper  had 
been  sprinkled  with  holy  water,  the  priest  con- 
ducted him  into  the  church,  the  leper  singing 
the  psalm  "  Libera  me  domine,"  and  the  crucifix 
and  bearer  going  before.  In  the  church  a  black 
cloth  was  stretched  over  two  trestles  in  front 
of  the  altar,  and  the  leper  leaning  at  its  side 
devoutly  heard  mass.  The  priest,  taking  up 
a  little  earth  in  his  cloak,  threw  it  on  one  of  the 
leper's  feet,  and  put  him  out  of  the  church,  if  it 
did  not  rain  too  heavily  ;  took  him  to  his  hut  in 
the  midsi;  of  the  fields,  and  then  uttered  the  pro- 
hibitions :  "  I  forbid  you  entering  the  church 
...  or  entering  the  company  of  others.  I  forbid 
you  quitting  your  home  without  your  leper's 
dress."  He  concluded:  "Take  this  dress,  and 
wear  it  in  token  of  humility  ;  take  these  gloves, 
take  this  clapper,  as  a  sign  that  you  are  forbidden 
to  speak  to  .any  one.  You  are  not  to  be  indig- 
nant at  being  thus  separated  from  others,  and  as 
to  your  little  wants,  good  people  will  provide  for 
you,  and  fiod  will  not  desert  you."  Then  in 
this  old  ritual  follow  these  sad  words  :  "  When 
it  shall  come  to  pass  that  the  leper  shall  paFs 
out  of  this  world,  he  shall  be  buried  in  his  hut, 
and  not  in  the  churchyard."    At  first  there  waa 


804 


TO  ULYSSES. 


a  doubt  whether  wives  should  follow  their  hus- 
bands who  had  been  leprous,  or  remain  in  the 
world  and  marry  again.  The  Church  decided 
that  the  marriage  tie  was  indissoluble,  and  so  be- 
stowed on  these  unhappy  beings  this  immense 
source  of  consolation.  With  a  love  stronger 
than  this  living  death,  lepers  were  followed  into 
banishment  from  the  haunts  of  men  by  their 
faithful  wives.  Readers  of  Sir  J.  Stephen's  Es- 
says on  Ecclesiastical  Biogrnpliy  will  recollect 
the  description  of  the  founder  of  the  Franciscan 
order,  how,  controlling  his  involuntary  disgust, 
(3t,  Francis  of  Assisi  washed  the  feet  and  dressed 
the  sores  of  the  lepers,  once  at  least  reverently 
applying  his  lips  to  their  wounds.  —  Boucher- 
James.] 

This  ceremony  of  (^wasi-burial  varied  consider- 
ably at  different  times  and  in  different  places. 
In  some  cases  a  grave  was  dug,  and  the  leper's 
face  was  often  covered  during  the  service 


TO  ULYSSES. 


Ulysses,  mucli-experienced  man, 

Whose  eye?  liave  kuowu  this  globe  of 

ours. 
Her  tribes  of  men,  and  trees,  and  flow- 
ers, 
From  Corrientes  to  Japan, 


To  you  that  bask  below  the  Line, 
I  soakinp:  here  in  winter  wet  — 
The  century's  three  strong  eights  have 
met 

To  drag  me  down  to  seventy-nine 


In  summer  if  I  reach  my  day  — 

To  you,  yet  young,  who  breathe  the 

balm 
Of  summer-winters  by  the  palm 

And  orange  grove  of  Paraguay, 


\  tolerant  of  the  colder  time, 

Who  love  the  winter  woods,  to  trace 
On  paler  heavens  the  branching  grace 

Of  leafless  elm,  or  naked  lime, 


And  see  my  cedar  green,  and  there 

My  giant  ilex  keeping  leaf 

When    frost    is    keen    and    days    are 
brief  — 
Or  marvel  how  in  English  air 


My  yucca,  which  no  winter  quells, 
Altho'   the   months    have    scarce   be- 
gun. 
Has  push'd  toward  our  faintest  sun 

A  spike  ci  half-accomplish'd  bells  — 


Or  watch  the  waving  pine  which  here 
The  warrior  of  Caprera  set,^ 
A  name  that  earth  will  not  forget 

Till  earth  has  roU'd  her  latest  year  — 

VIII, 

I,  once  half-crazed  for  larger  light 
On  broader  zones  beyond  the  foam. 
But  chaining  fancy  now  at  home 

Among  the  quarried  downs  of  Wight, 


Not  less  would  yield  full  thanks  to  yon 
For  your  rich  gift,  your  tale  of  lands 
I  know  not,  ^  your  Arabian  sands  ; 

Your  cane,  your  palm,  tree-fern,  bamboo, 


The  wealth  of  tropic  bower  and  brake ; 

Your  Oriental  Eden-isles,^ 

Where  man,  nor  only  Nature  smiles ; 
Your  wonder  of  the  boiling  lake ;  * 


Phra-Chai,  the  Shadow  of  the  Best,^ 
Phra-bat^  the  .step ;  your  Pontic  coast; 
Crag -cloister;  ■•  Anatolian  Ghost  ;8 

Hong-Kong,  "^  Karnac,  i"  and  all  the  rest. 


Thro'  which  I  follow 'd  line  by  line 

Your    leading    hand,   and    came,   my 
friend. 


1  Garibaldi  said  to  me,  alluding  to  his  barrer 
island,  "  I  wish  I  had  your  trees." 

2  The  Tale  of  Nejd. 

3  The  Philippines. 
*  In  Dominica. 

5  The  Shadow  of  the  Lord.  Certain  obscure 
markings  on  a  rock  in  Siam,  which  express  the 
image  of  Budda  to  the  Buddhist  more  or  less 
distinctly  according  to  his  faith  and  his  moral 
worth. 

e  The  footstep  of  the  Lord  on  another  rock. 

'  The  monastery  of  Sumelas. 

8  Anatolian  Spectre  stories. 

"  The  three  cities. 

10  Travels  in  Egypt. 


TO  MARY  BOYLE. 


805 


To  prize  your  various  book.i  and  send 
A  gift  of  slenderer  value,  mine. 


TO  MARY  BOYLE. 

WITH   THE   FOT.LOWING   POEM. 
I. 

'Spring-flowers"!     While  you  still 
delay  to  take 

Your  leave  of  Town, 
Our    elmtree's    ruddy-hearted     blossom- 
flake 

Is  fluttering  down. 


Be   truer   to  your   promise.     There !    I 
heard 

One  cuckoo  call. 

Be  needle  to  the  magnet  of  your  word. 

Nor  wait,  till  all 


Our  vernal  bloom  from  every  vale  and 
plain 

And  garden  pass. 
And   all   the  gold  from  each  laburnum 
chain 

Drop  to  the  grass. 


Is  memory  with  your  Marian  gone  to  rest, 
Dead  with  the  dead  1 

For  ere  she  left  us,  when  we  met,  you 
prest 

My  hand,  and  said 


"I  come  with  your  spring-flowers."    You 
came  not,  friend  ; 

My  birds  would  sins, 
You  heard  not.     Take  then  this  spring- 
flower  I  send, 

This  song  of  spring, 


Found  yesterday  —  forgotten   mine   own 
rhyme 

By  mine  old  self, 
As  I  shall  be  forgotten  by  old  Time 

Laid  on  the  shelf  — 

*  "  Ulysses,"  the  title  of  a  number  of  essays  by 
W.  G.  P.algrave.  He  died  at  Monte  Video  before 
seeing  either  this  volume  or  my  poem. 


A  rhyme  that  flower'd  betwixt  the  white- 
ning sloe 

And  kingcup  blaze. 
And  more  than  half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

In  rick-fire  days, 


When  Dives  loathed  the  times,  and  paced 
his  land 

In  fear  of  worse, 
And  sanguine  Lazarus  felt  a  vacant  hand 

Fill  with  his  purse. 


For  lowly  minds  were  madden 'd  to  the 
height 

By  tonguester  tricks, 
And   once  —  I  well   remember   that  red 
night 

When  thirty  ricks, 


All  flaming,  made  an  English  homestead 
Hell  — 

These  hands  of  mine 
Have  helpt  to  pass  a  bucket  from  the  well 
Along  the  line, 


When  this  bare  dome  had  not  begun  to 
gleam 

Thro'  youthful  curls, 
And  you  were  then  a  lover's  fairy  dream, 

His  girl  of  girls  ; 


And  you,  that  now  are  lonely,  and  with 
Grief 

Sit  face  to  face, 
Might  find  a  flickering  glimmer  of  relief 

In  change  of  place. 


What  use  to  brood  ?  this  life  of  mingleci 
pains 

And  joys  to  me, 
Despite   of   every  Faith   and   Creed,  re= 
mains 

The  Mystery. 


Let  golden  youth  bewail  the  friend,  the 
wife, 

For  ever  gone. 


806 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   SPRING. 


He  dreams  of  that  long  walk  thro'  desert 
life 

Without  the  one. 

XV. 

The  silver  year  should  cease  to  mourn 
and  sigh  — 

Not  long  to  wait  — 
So  close  are  we,  dear  Mar}-,  you  and  I 

To  that  dim  gate. 


Take,  read  !  and  be  the  faults  your  Poet 
makes 

Or  many  or  few, 
He  rests  content,   if    his   young    music 
wakes 

A  wish  in  you 


To  change  our  dark  Queen-city,  all  her 
realm 

Of  sound  and  smoke, 
For  his  clear  heaven,  and  these  few  lanes 
of  elm  _ 

And  whispering  oak. 

THE  PROGRESS   OF  SPRING. 


The  groundflame  of   the  crocus  breaks 
the  mould, 
Fair    Spring     slides    hilher    o'er    the 
Southern  sea. 
Wavers  on  her  thin  stem  the  snowdrop 
cold 
That  trembles  not  to  kisses  of  the  bee  : 
Come  Spring,  for  now  from  all  the  drip- 
ping eaves 
The  spear  of  ice  has  wept  itself  away, 
And  hour  by  hour  unfolding  woodbine 
leaves 
O'er  his  uncertain  shadow  droops  the 
day. 
She  comt's !     The  loosen'd  rivulets  run  ; 
The  frost-bead  melts  upon  her  golden 
hair; 
Her  mantle,  slowly  greening  in  the  Sun, 
Now    wraps    her    close,   now    arching 

leaves  her  bare 
To  breaths  of  balmier  air; 


Up  leaps  fhe  lark,  gone  wild  to  welcome 
her, 


About  her  glance  the  tits,  and  shriek 
the  jays. 
Before  her  skims  the  jubilant  woodpecker, 
The  linnet's  bosom  blushes  at  her  gaze. 
While  round  her  brows  a  woodland  culver 
flits, 
Watching   her  large    light    eyes    and 
gracious  looks, 
And  in  her  open  palm  a  halc3'on  sits 
Patient  —  the    secret    splendor  of  the 
brooks. 
Comb  Spring !     She  comes  on  waste  and 
wood. 
On  farm  and  field:  but  enter  also  here. 
Diffuse  thyself  at  will  thro'  all  my  blood, 
And,  tho'  thy  violet  sicken  into  sere. 
Lodge  with  me  all  the  year ! 


Once   more   a   downy  drift  against  the 
brakes, 
Self-darken'd   in   the   sky,  descending 
slow ! 
But  gladly  see  I  thro'  the  wavering  flakes 
Yon    blanching    apricot   like   snow  in 
snow. 
These  will  thine  eyes  not  brook  in  forest- 
paths. 
On  their  perpetual  pine,  nor  round  the 
beech ; 
They  fuse  themselves  to  little  spicy  baths, 
Solved    in    the    tender   blushes  of   the 
peach ; 
They  lose  themselves  and  die 

On  that  hew  life  that  gems  the  haw- 
thorn line  ; 
Thy  gav  lent-lilies  wave   and  put  them 

by. 

And  out  once  more  in  varnish'd  glory 

shine 
Thv  stars  of  celandine. 


She  floats   across   the   hamlet.      Heaven 
lours. 
But   in   the    tearful    splendor  of    her 
smiles 
I    see    the     slowly-thickening     chestnut 
towers 
Fill  out  the  spaces  by  the  barrer.  tiles. 
Now  past  her  feet  the  swallow  circling, 
flies, 
A  clamorous  cuckoo  stoops  to  meet  her 
hand ; 
Her  light  nxikes  rainbows  in  my  closing 
eyes, 


i 


THE   PROGRESS   OF  SPRING. 


807 


I  hear  a  cliarra  of  song  thro'  all  the 

land. 
Come,  Spriuj^!     She  comes,  and  Earth  is 

glad 
To  roll  her  North  below  thy  deepeuiug 

dome, 
But  ere  thy  maideu  birk  be  wholly  clad. 
And  these  low  bushes  dip  their  twigs  in 

foam, 
Make  all  true  hearths  thy  home. 


Across  my  garden !   and  the  thicket  stirs. 
The   fountain   pulses   high  in  sunnier 
jets, 
The    blackcap   warbles,   and    the   turtle 
purrs, 
The  starling  claps  his  tiny  castanets. 
Still    round    her    forehead    wheels     the 
woodland  dove. 
And  scatters  on  her  throat  the  sparks 
of  dew. 
The  kingcup  fills  her  footjirint,  and  above 
Broaden   the  glowing  isles   of  vernal 
bine. 
Hail  an)ple  ])resence  of  a  Queen, 

Bountiful,  beautiful,  apparell'd  gay. 
Whoso  mantle,  every  shade  of  glancing 
green. 
Flies  back  in  fragrant  breezes  to  dis- 
play 
A  tunic  white  as  May ! 


She  whispers,  "  From  the  South  I  bring 
you  balm, 
For  on  a  tropic  mountain  was  I  born, 
While  some  dark  dweller  by  the  cocoa- 
palm 
Watch'd   my  far  meadow  zoned  with 
airy  morn ; 
From    under    rose    a    muffled    moan   of 
floods ; 
I  sat  beneath  a  solitude  of  snow ; 
There  no  one  came,  the  turf  was  fresh, 
the  woods 
Plunged  gulf   on   gulf   thro'  all  their 
vales  below. 
I  saw  beyond  their  silent  tops 
The  steaming  marshes  of   the   scarlet 
cranes. 
The  slant  seas  leaning  on  the  mangrove 
copse, 
And    summer    basking   in   the  sultry 

plains 
About  a  land  of  canes ; 


"  Then  from  my  vapor-glrdle  soaring  forth 
I  scaled   the  buoyant  highway  of  the 
birds, 
And  drank  the  dews  and  drizzle  of  the 
North, 
That  I  might  mix  with  men,  and  hear 
their  words 
On   pathway 'd   plains;    for — while   my 
hand  exults 
Within    the   bloodless   heart  of  lowly 
flowers 
To  work  old  laws  of  Love  to  fresh  results, 
Thro'  manifold   effect  of  simple  pow 
ers  — 
I  too  would  teach  the  man 

Beyonil    the   darker    hour  to  see  the 
bright, 
That  his  fresh  life  may  close  as  it  began, 
The  still  fulfilling  promise  of  a  light 
Narrowing  the  bounds  of  night." 


So  wed  thee  with  my  soul,  that  I  may 
mark 
The   coming  year's    great    good    and 
varied  ills, 
And  new  developments,  whatever  spark 
Be  struck  from  out  the  clash  of  warring- 
wills  ; 
Or   whether,   since    our    nature    cannot 
rest. 
The   smoke   of    war's    volcano     burst 
again 
From  hoary  deeps  that  belt  the  changeful 
West, 
Old  Empires,  dwellings  of  the  kings  of 
men ; 
Or  should  those  fail,  that  hold  the  helm. 
While    the    long    day    of    knowledge 
grows  and  warms, 
And  in  the  heart  of    this   most  ancient 
realm 
A  hateful  voice  be  utter'd,  and  alarms 
Sounding  "  To  arms  !  to  arms !  " 


A  simpler,  saner  lesson  might  he  learn 
Who  reads  thy  gradual  process,  Holy 
Spring. 
Thy  leaves   possess  the  season    in  their 
turn. 
And  in  their  time  thy  warblers  rise  on 
wing. 
How  surely  glidest  thou  from  March  to 
Majr, 


808 


MERLIN   AND   THE   GLEAM. 


And  cbangest,  breathing  it,  the  sullen 
'.viiid, 
Thy  scope  of  operation,  day  hy  day. 
Larger    and    fuller,   like   the    human 
mind ! 
Thy  warmths  frona  bud  to  bud 

Accomplish    that    blind   model  in    the 
seed, 
And  men  have  hopes,  which  race  the  rest- 
less blood, 
That  after  many  changes  may  succeed 
Life,  which  is  Life  indeed. 


MERLIN  AND  THE  GLEAM. 


0  YOUNG  Mariner, 
You  from  the  haven 
Under  the  sea-cliff, 
You  that  are  watching 
The  gray  Magician 
With  eyes  of  wonder, 
/  am  Merlin, 

And  1  am  dying, 

1  am  Merlin 

Who  follow  The  Gleam. 


Miglity  the  Wizard 
Who  found  me  at  sunrise 
Sleeping,  and  woke  me 
And  learn 'd  me  Magic! 
Great  the  Master, 
And  sweet  the  Magic, 
When  over  the  valley, 
In  early  summers, 
Over  the  mountain, 
On  human  faces. 
And  all  around  me, 
Moving  to  melody, 
Floated  The  Gleam. 


Once  at  the  croak  of  a  Raven  who 

crost  it 
A  barbarous  people. 
Blind  to  the  magic. 
And  deaf  to  the  melody, 
Snarl'd  at  and  cursed  me. 
A  demon  vext  me, 
The  light  retreated. 
The  landskip  daiken'd. 
The  melody  deaden'd, 
The  Master  whisper'd 
^'  Follow  The  Gleam." 


IV. 

Then  to  the  melody, 

Over  a  wilderness 

Gliding,  and  glancing  at 

Elf  of  the  woodland. 

Gnome  of  the  cavern. 

Griffin  and  Giant, 

And  dancing  of  Fairies 

In  desolate  hollows, 

And  wraiths  of  the  niountaiQi, 

And  rolling  of  dragons 

By  warble  of  water. 

Of  cataract  music 

Of  falling  torrents. 

Flitted  The  Gleam. 


Down  from  the  mountain 

And  over  the  level, 

And  streaming  and  shining  on 

Silent  river. 

Silvery  willow. 

Pasture  and  plowland, 

Horses  and  oxen. 

Innocent  maidens. 

Garrulous  children. 

Homestead  and  harvest, 

Reaper  and  gleaner. 

And  rough-ruddy  faces 

Of  lowly  laboi-, 

Slided  The  Gleam.  — 


Then,  with  a  melody 
Stronger  and  statelier. 
Led  me  at  length 
To  the  city  and  palace 
Of  Arthur  the  king ; 
Touch'd  at  the  golden 
Cross  of  the  churches, 
Flash'd  on  the  Tournament 
Flicker'd  and  bicker'd 
From  helmet  to  hehnet. 
And  last  on  the  forehead 
Of  Arthur  the  blameless 
Rested  The  Gleam. 

VII. 

Clouds  and  darkness 
Closed  upon  Camelot ; 
Arthur  had  vanish'd 
I  knew  not  whither, 
The  king  who  loved  me. 
And  cannot  die ; 
For  out  of  the  darkness 
Silently  and  slowly 


romney's  remorse. 


809 


Tho  Gleam,  that  had  waned  to  a 

wintry  <;linimt.'r 
On  icy  fallow 
And  faded  forest, 
Drew  to  the  valley 
Named  of  the  shadow. 
And  slowly  brightening 
Out  of  the' glimmer, 
And   slowly   moving    again   to  a 

melody 
Yearningly  tender, 
Fell  on  the  shadow, 
No  longer  u  shadow. 
But  clothed  with  The  Gleam. 

VIII. 

And  broader  and  brighter 

The  Gleam  Hying  onward, 

Wed  to  the  melody, 

Sang  thro'  the  world ; 

And  slower  and  fainter, 

Old  and  weary, 

Bnt  eager  to  follow, 

i  saw,  whenever 

In  passing  it  glanced  upon 

Hamlet  or  city, 

That  under  the  Crosses 

The  dead  man's  garden, 

The  mortal  hillock, 

Would  break  into  blossom; 

And  so  to  the  land's 

Last  limit  I  came 

And  can  no  longer, 

But  die  rejoicing. 

For  thro'  the  Magic 

Of  Him  the  Mighty, 

Who  taught  me  in  childhood. 

There  on  the  border 

Of  boundless  Ocean, 

And  all  but  in  Heaven 

Hovers  The  Gleam. 


Not  of  the  sunlight. 
Not  of  the  moonlight, 
Not  of  the  starlight ! 
O  young  Mariner, 
Down  to  the  haven. 
Call  your  companions. 
Launch  your  vessel. 
And  crowd  your  canvas, 
And,  ere  it  vanishes 
Over  the  margin, 
After  it,  follow  it, 
Follv/W  The  Gleam. 


ROMNEY'S  REMORSE. 

"  I  read  Haylev's  Life  of  Roraney  the  other 
day  —  Romuey  wanted  but  education  and  reading 
to  make  him  a  very  fine  painter;  but  his  ideal 
was  not  high  nor  fixed.  How  touching  is  the 
close  of  his  life  '.  He  mariied  at  nineteen,  and 
because  Sir  Joshua  and  otliers  had  said  that 
'  marriage  spoilt  an  artist '  almost  immediately 
left  his  wife  in  the  North  and  scarce  saw  her  till 
the  end  of  his  life;  when  old,  nearly  mad  and 
quite  desolate,  he  went  back  to  her  and  she  re- 
ceived him  and  nursed  him  till  he  died.  This 
quiet  act  of  hers  is  worth  all  Romney's  pictures! 
eveuas  a  matter  of  Art,  lam  sure.''  (Utters 
and  Literary  Hetnaiii.i  of  Edward  Fitzgerald, 
vol.  i.) 

"  Beat,  little  heart—  I  give  you  this  and 
this." 
Who  are  you  ?    What !  the  Lady  Ham- 
ilton ? 
Good,  I  am  never  weary  painting  you. 
To  sit  once    morel     Cassandra,   Hebe, 

Joan, 
Or  spinning   at   your  wheel   beside  the 

vine  — 
Bacchante,  what  you  will ;  and  if  I  fail 
To  conjure  and  concentrate  into  form 
And  color  all  you  are,  the  fault  is  less 
In  me  than  Art.     What  Artist  ever  yet 
Could  make  pure  light  live  on  the  canvas? 

Art! 
Why  should  I  so  disrelish  that  short  word  ? 
Where   am  1 1  snow   on  all  the  hills ! 
so  hot. 
So  fever'd!  never  colt  would   more  de- 
light 
To  roll  himself  in  meadow  grass  than  I 
To  wallow  in  that  winter  of  the  hills. 
Nurse,   were   you   hired  ?  or   came   of 
your  own  will 
To  wait  on  one  so  broken,  so  forlorn  ? 
Have    I    not  met  you   somewhere   long 

ago  f 
I  am   all   but  sure  I  have  — in  Kendal 
church  — 

0  yes  !  I  hired  you  for  a  season  there. 
And  then  we  parted  ;  but  you  look  so  kind 
That  you  will  not  deny  my  sultry  throat 
One  draught  of  icy  water.     There  — you 

spill 
The   drops    upon    my   forehead.      Your 
hand  shakes. 

1  am  ashamed.     I  am  a  trouble  to  you. 
Could   kneel  for  your  forgiveness.     Are 

they  tears  'i 
For  me  —  they  do  me  too  much  grace  — 

for  me  ? 
'  O  Mary,  Mary  ! 


810 


romney's  remorse. 


V^exing  you  with  words ! 
Words  only,  born  of  fever,  or  the  fumes 
Of  that  dark  opiate  dose  you  gare  me,  — 

words, 
Wild  babble.    I  have  stumbled  back  anaiu 
Into  the  common  day,  the  sounder  self. 
God  stay  me  there,  if  only  for  your  sake. 
The  truest,  kindliest,  uobiestheaited  wife 
That   ever  wore  a    Christian   marriage- 
ring. 
My  curse  upon  the  Master's  apothegm, 
That  wife  and   children  drag  an  Artist 

down  ! 
This  seem'd  my  lodestar  in  the  Heaven  of 

Art, 
And  lured  me  from  the  household  fire  on 

earth. 
To  you  my  davs  have  been  a  life-long 

lie, 
Grafted  on  half  a  truth,  and  tho'  you 

say 
'  Take    comfort,    you     have    won     the 

Painter's  fame  ; 
The  best  in  me   that  sees  the  worst  in 

me. 
And   groans  to  see  it,  finds  no  comfort 

there. 
What  fame  ?    I  am  not  Raphael,  Titian 

—  no 
Nor  even  a  Sir  Joshua,  some  will  cry. 
Wrong  there  !     The  painter's  fame  ?  but 

mine,  that  grew 
Blown    into    glittering   by   the   popular 

breath. 
May  float  awhile  beneath  the  sun,  may 

roll 
The  rainbow  hues  of  heaven  about  it  — 

There ! 
The    color'd    bubble   bursts    above    the 

abyss 
Of  Darkness,  utter  Lethe. 

Is  it  so  ? 
Her  sad  eyes  plead  for  my  own  fame  with 

me 
To  make  it  dearer. 

Look,  the  sun  has  risen 
To  flame  along  another  dreary  day. 
Your  hand.     How  bright  you  keep  your 

marriage  ring  ! 
Raise  me.     1  thank  you. 

Has  your  opiate  then 
Bred  this  black  mood  t  or  am  I  conscious, 

more 
Than  other  Masters,  of  the  chasm  be- 
tween 


Woik  and  Ideal  ?     Or  does  the  erloom  of 

Age  ^ 

And  suffering  cloud  the  height  I  stand 

upon 
Even  from  myself  1  stand  ?  stood  .  .     no 

more. 

And  "et 
The  world  would  lose,  if  such  a  wife  as 

you 
Should    vanish    unrecorded.      Mighl    I 

crave 
One  favor  ?     I  am  bankrupt  of  all  claim 
On  your  obedience,  and  my  strongest  wish 
Falls  flat  before  your  least  unwillingness. 
Still  would  you  —  if  it  please  you  —  sit 

to  me  ? 
I   dream'd    last   night  of    that    clear 

summer  noon, 
When  seated  on  a  rock,  and  foot  to  foot 
With   your  own   shadow   in   the    placid 

lake, 
You  claspt  our  infant  daugliter,  heart  to 

heart. 
I  had  been  among  the  hills,  and  brought 

you  dow'n 
A  length  of  staghorn-moss,  and  this  you 

twined 
About  her  cap.     I  see  the  picture  yet, 
Mother  and   child.      A   sound   from  far 

away, 
No  louder  than  a  bee  among  the  flowers, 
A  fall  of  water  luU'd  the  noon  asleep. 
Y"ou   still'd   it  for   the   moment   with   a 

song 
Which  often  echo'd  in  me,  while  I  stood 
Before  the  great  Madonna-masterpieces 
Of  ancient  Art  in  Paris,  or  in  Rome. 
Mary,  my  crayons  !  if  I  can,  I  will. 
You  should  have  been  —  I  might  have 

made  you  once. 
Had   I   but   known  you  as  I  know  you 

now  — 
The   true   Alcestis   of    the    time.     You-r 

song  — 
Sit,  listen  !     I  remember  it,  a  proof 
That  I  —  even  I  —  at  times  remember'd 

you. 

"Beat    upon   mine,  little    heart!    beat; 
beat! 
Beat  upon  mine !   you  are  mine,    my 

sweet ! 
All  mine  from  your  pretty  blue  eyes  to 
your  feet. 

My  sweet." 
Less  profile  !  turn  to  me  —  three-quarter 
face. 


romney's  remorse. 


811 


"  Sleep,   little   blosscTn,  my   honey,  my 
bliss ! 
For  I  give  you   this,  and  I  give  vou 

this ! 
And  I  blind  your  pretty  blue  eyes  with 
a  kiss! 

Sleep ! " 

Too  early  blinded  by  the  kiss  of  death  — 

"Father  and  Mother  will  watch  you 

grow  "  — 

You  watch'd  not  I,  she  did  not  grow,  she 

died. 

"Father    and    Mother  will   watch   you 

grow, 
And  gather  the  roses  whenever  they 

blow, 
And  find  the  white  heather  wherever 

you  go," 

My  sweet." 
Ah,  my   white    heather    only   grows   in 

heaven 
With  Milton's  amaranth.     There,  there, 

there !  a  child 
Had  shamed  me  at  it — Down,  you  idle 

tools, 
Stampt  into  dust  —  tremulous,  all  awry, 
Blurr'd  like  a  landskip  in  a  ruffled  pool,  — 
Not    one    stroke    firm.      This  Art,  that 

harlot-like 
Seduced  me  from  you,  leaves  me  harlot- 
like. 
Who    love    her  still,  and  whimper,  im 

potent 
To   win    her   back    before   I   die  —  and 

then  — 
Then,  in  the  loud  world's  bastard  judg- 
ment-day, 
One  truth  will  damn  me  with  the  mind- 
less mob. 
Who  feel  no  touch  of    my   temptation 

more 
More    than    all    the    myriad    lies,    that 

blacken  round 
The  corpse  of   every    man  that  gains  a 

name ; 
•'  This  model  husband,  this  fine  Artist  "  ! 

Fool, 
What  matters?     Six  foot  deep  of  burial 

mould 
Will    dull    their    comments  !      Ay,    but 

when  the  shout 
Of    His   descending  peals  from  Heaven, 

and  throbs  , 


Thro'  earth,  and   all   her  graves,  if  He 

should  ask 
"  Why  left  you  wife  and  children  ?  for  my 

sake. 
According  to  my  word'?  "  and  I  replied 
"Nay,   Lord,  for  iJrt,"  why,  that  would 

sound  so  mean 
That  all  the  dead,  who  wait  the  doom  of 

Hell 
For  bolder  sins  than  mine,  adulteviea, 
Wife-murders,  —  nay,  the  ruthless  Mus- 
sulman 
Who  flings  his  bowstrung  Harem  in  the 

sea. 
Would  turn,  and  glare  at  me,  and  point 

and  jeer. 
And   gibber  at  the  worm,   who,   living, 

made 
The  wife  of  wives  a  widow-bride,  and  lost 
Salvation  for  a  sketch. 

I  am  wild  again ! 
The  coals  of  fire  you  heap  upon  my  head 
Have  crazed   me.      Some  one   knocking 

there  without  ? 
No  !     Will  mv  Indian  brother  come  ?  to 

find 
Me  or  my  coffin  ?      Should  I  know  the 

man? 
This  worn-out  Reason  dying  in  her  house 
May  leave  the  windows  blinded,  and  if  so. 
Bid  him  farewell  for  me,  and  tell  him  — 

Hope! 
I     hear     a     death-bed     Angel    whisper 

"  Hope." 
"  The  miserable  have  no  medicine 
But  only  Hope  !  "     He  said  it  .  .  ,  in  the 

play. 
His  crime  was  of  the  senses  ;  of  the  mmd 
Mine  ;  worse,  cold,  calculated. 

Tell  my  sen  — 

0  let  me  lean  my  head  upon  your  breast 
"Beat  little  heart"  on  this  fool  brain  of 

mine. 

1  once  had  friends  —  and   many— none 

like  you. 
I  love  you  more  than  when  we  married. 

Hope ! 
0  yes,  I  hope,  or  fancy  that,  perhaps. 
Human  forgiveness  touches  heaven,  and 

thence  — 
For  you    forgive    me,  you   are  sure  of 

that  — 
Reflected,  sends  a  light  on  the  forgiven- 


812 


BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST. 


PARNASSUS. 

Esegi  monumentum  .  .  . 
Quod  non  .  .  . 
Possit  diruere  .  .  . 

.  .  .  innumerabilis 
Annorum  series  et  fuga  temporum. 

HOEiCE. 


What  be  the  crown'd  forms  high  over 

the  sacred  foiiuCain  ? 
Bards,  that  the  mighty  Muses  have  raised 

to  the  heights  of  the  mountain, 
And   over  the    flight  of   the   Ages !     O 

Goddesses,  help  me  up  thither! 
Lightning    may    shrivel    the    laurel    of 

Csesar,  but  mine  would  not  wither. 
Steep  is  the  mountain,  but  you,  you  will 

help  me  to  overcome  it, 
i^nd  stand  with  my  head  in  the  zenith, 

and  roll  my  voice  from  the  sum- 
mit, 
Sounding  for  ever  and  ever  thro'  Earth 

and  her  listening  nations, 
And  mixt  with  the  great  Sphere-music  of 

stars  and  of  constellations. 


What  be  those  two  shapes  high  over  the 

sacred  fountain. 
Taller  than   all   the   Muses,  and   huger 

than  all  the  mountain  f 
On  those  two  known  peaks  they  stand 

ever  spreading  and  heightening ; 
Poet,  that  evergreen  laurel  is  blasted  by 

more  than  lightning! 
Look,  in  their  deep  double  shadow  the 

crown'd  ones  all  disappearing ! 
Sing  like  a  bird  and  be  happy,  nor  hope 

for  a  deathless  hearing ! 
"  Sounding  for  ever  and  ever  ?  "  pass  on  ! 

the  sight  confuses  — 
These  are  Astronomy  and  Geology,  ter- 
rible Muses ! 


If  the  lips  were  touch'd  with  fire  from  off 

a  pure  Pierian  altar, 
Tho'  their  music  here  be  mortal  need  the 

singer  greatly  care  ? 
Other  songs  for   other  worlds!    the  fire 

within  him  would  not  falter; 
Let  the  golden  Iliad  vanish,  Homer  here 

is  Homer  there. 


BY  AN  EVOLUTIONIST. 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  tha 
soul  of  a  man, 
And    the    man    said     "Am    I   your 
debtor'?" 
And  the  Lord  —  "  Not  yet :  but  make  i<j 
as  clean  as  you  can. 
And  then  I  will  let  vou  a  better." 


If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  my  soul 
uncertain,  or  a  fable. 
Why  not  bask  amid  the  senses  while 
the  sun  of  morning  shines, 
I,  the  liner  brute  rejoicing  in  my  hounds, 
and  in  my  stable. 
Youth     and    Health,    and    birth    and 
wealth,  and  choice  of  women  and 
of  wines  1 


What  hast  thou  done  for  me,  grim  Old 
Age,  save  breaking  my  bones  on 
the  rack  ? 
Would  I  had  past  in  the  morning  that 
looks  so  bright  from  afar ! 

Old  Age. 

Done  for  thee  ?  starved  the   wild   beast 
that   was   linkt   with   thee  eighty 
years  back. 
Less   weight    now  for    the    ladder-of- 
heaven  that  hangs  on  a  star. 


If  my  body  come  from  brutes,  tho'  some- 
what finer  than  their  own, 
I  am  heir,  and  this  my  kingdom.    Shall 
the  royal  voice  be  mute  ? 
No,  but  if  the  rebel  subject  seek  to  drag 
me  from  the  throne, 
Hold   the   sceptre,  Human    Soul,   anc 
rule  thy  Province  of  the  brute. 


I  have  climb'd  to  the  snows  of  Age,  and 
I  gaze  at  a  field  in  the  Past, 
Where  I  sank  with   the  body  at  times 
in  the  .sloughs  of  a  low  desire, 
But  I  hear  no  yelp  of  the   beast,  and  the 
Man  is  quiet  at  last 
As  he  stands  on  the  heights  of  his  life 
with  a  glimpse  of  a  height  that  i:i 
higher. 


TO   ONE   WHO   RAN   DOWN   lES.   ENGLISH. 


813 


FAR  —  FAR  —  AWAY. 
(for  music.) 

WnxT  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields 

he  knew 
As  where  earth's  greeu  stole  into  heaveu's 

own  hue. 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 

What  sound  was  dearest   in  his  native 

dells  ? 
The  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evening  bells 
Far  —  far  —  away. 


What  vague  world-whisper,  mystic  pain 
or  joy, 
those  three  ' 
when  a  boy 


or  joy. 
Thro'  those  three  words  would  haunt  him 


Far  —  far  —  away  1 

A  whisper  from  his  dawn  of  life  ?  a  breath 
From  some  fair  dawn  beyond  the  doors  of 
death 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 

Far,  far,  how  far  1  from  o'er  the  gates  of 

Birth, 
The   faiut   horizons,   all   the   bounds  of 

earth, 

Far  —  far  —  away  ? 

What  charm  in  words,  a  charm  no  words 

could  give  ? 
O   dying   words,   can   Music    make   you 

live 

Far  —  far  —  away  f 


POLITICS. 

W^E  move,  the  wheel  must  always  move. 

Nor  always  on  the  plain, 
Aod  if  we  move  to  such  a  goal 

As  Wisdom  hopes  to  gain. 
Then  you  that  drive,  and  know  your  Craft, 

Will  firmly  hold  the  rein, 
Nor  lend  an  ear  to  random  cries, 

Or  you  may  drive  in  vain. 
For   some   cry   "  Quick "   and   some  cry 
"  Slow," 

But,  while  the  hills  remain, 
Up  hill  "  'I'ooslow  "  will  need  the  whip, 

Down  hill  "  Too-quick  "  the  chain. 


BEAUTIIUL  CITY. 

Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater  of 

European  contusion, 
0  you  with  your  passic  nate  shriek  for  the 

ri<:hts  of  an  equal  humanity. 
How  often  your  Re-volition  has  provec 

but  E-volution 
RoU'd  again  back  on  itsiif  in  the  tides  of 

a  civic  insanity ! 


THE  ROSES  ON  THfl    TERRACE. 

Rose,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago, 
when  I  was  in  my  Ju  le,  you  in  your 
May, 
Two  words,  "  ili/  Rose  "  sec  all  your  face 
aj,^low, 
And  now  that  I  am  while,  and  you  are 
gray, 
That  blush  of  fifty  years  ago,  my  dear. 
Blooms  in  the  Past,  but  close  to  me  to- 
day 
As  this  red  rose,  which  on  ou.r  terrace  here 
Glows  iu  the  blue  of  fifty  lailes  away. 


THE  PLAY. 

Act  first,  this  Earth,  a  stage  <o  gloom'd 
j  with  woe 

You  all  but  sicken  at  the  shif tlug  scenes. 
I  And  yet  be  patient.  Our  Play wiight  may 
!  show 

In  some  fifth  Act  what  this  wild  Drama 
means. 


ON  ONE  WHO  AFFECTED  AN 
EFFEMINATE  MANNER 

While  man  and  woman  still  are  inco.Ti- 

plete, 
I  prize  that  soul  where  man  and  womaii 

meet. 
Which  types  all  Nature's  male  and  female 

plan, 
But,  friend,  man-woman  is  not  ivoman- 

man. 


TO   ONE   WHO   RAN   DOWN    THE 
ENGLISH. 

You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  and  thence 
maintain 


814 


CROSSING  THE  BAB. 


Our  darker  future.     Maj'  your  fears  be 

vain! 
At  times  the  small  black  fly  upon  the  pane 
May  seem  the  black  ox  of  the  distant 

plain. 


THE  SNOWDROP. 

Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid, 
Ever  as  of  old  time, 
Solitary  firstling, 
Coming  in  the  cold  time, 
Prophet  of  the  gay  time, 
Prophet  of  the  May  time, 
Prophet  of  the  roses. 
Many,  many  welcomes 
February  fair-maid ! 


THE   THROSTLE. 

"  Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love 
again," 

Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"  New,  new,  new,  new  "  !     Is  it  then  so 
new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

"Love  again,   song  again,   nest   again, 
young  again  " 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy  ! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

"  Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year ! 

O  warble  unchiddeu,  unbidden  ! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 


THE   OAK. 

Live  thy  Life, 

Young  and  old. 
Like  yon  oak, 
Bright  in  spring. 
Living  gold ; 


Summer-rich 

Then ;  and  then 
Autumn  changed, 
Soberer-hued 

Gold  again. 

All  his  leaves 

Fall'n  at  length, 
Look,  he  stands. 
Trunk  and  bough. 

Naked  strength. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

W.  G.  Ward. 

Farewell,  whose  like  on  earth  I  shall 
not  find. 
Whose  Faith  and  Work  were  bells  of 
full  accord. 
My  friend,  the  most  unworldly  of  man- 
kind. 
Most  generous  of  all  Ultramontanes, 
Ward, 
How  subtle  at  tierce  and  quart  of  mind 
with  mind. 
How  loyal  in  the  following  of  thy  Lord ! 


CROSSING   THE  BAR. 

Sdnset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 
Too  full  for  sound  and  foam. 

When    that   which   drew   from   out   the 
boundless  deep 
Turns  again  home. 


Twilitrht  and  evening  bell. 
And  after  that  the  dark  ! 

And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  fai . 
When  I  embark; 


relL 


For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and 
Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES. 


A  bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves,  22. 

A  city  clerk,  but  gently  born  aud  bred,  382. 

A  garden  here  —  May  breath    and    bloom  of 

spring,  535. 
A  happy  lover  who  has  come,  290. 
A  million  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded 

lime,  320. 
A  plague  upon  the  people  fell,  122. 
A  prince  I  was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in  face,  241. 
A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours,  13. 
A  still  small  voice  spake  unto  me,  92. 
A  storm  was  coming,  but  the  winds  were  still, 

102. 
A  thousand  summers  ere  the  time  of  Christ, 

675. 
A  touch,  a  kiss  !  the  charm  was  suapt,  100. 
A  trifle,  sweet !  which  true  love  spells,  28. 
A  voice  by  the  cedar  tree,  327. 
Act  first,  this  Earth,  a  stage  so  gloom'd  with 

woe,  813. 
Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave,  305. 
Ah  God  !  the  petty  fools  of  rhyme,  395. 
Airy,  fairy  Lilian,  5. 
All  along  the  vaUey,  stream  that  flashest  white, 

393. 
All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof,  415. 
All  precious  things,  discover'd  late,  100. 
All  tlioughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams  are  true,  415. 
Altho'  I  be  tiie  basest  of  mankind,  74. 
And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  aud  form,  320. 
And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant,  100. 
And  was  the  day  of  my  delight,  294. 
And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  is  gone,  you  say, 

little  Anne  ?  387. 
Angels  have  talked  with  him,  and  showed  him 

thrones,  409. 
Are  you  sleeping  ?  have  you  forgotten  ?  do  not 

sleep,  my  sister  dear !  079. 
As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face,  305. 
As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went,  245. 
As  when  with  downcast    eyes  we  muse  and 

brood,  419. 
Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea, 

280. 
At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  GrenviUe 

lay,  573. 
At  Francis  Allen's  on  the  Christmas-eve,  56. 
At  times  our  Britain  cannot  rest,  785. 
'  Athelstan  King,  629. 

Babble  in  bower,  733. 

Banner  of  England,  not  for  a  season,  O  banner 

of  Britain,  hast  thou,  576. 
Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day,  428. 
Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low,  299. 
"Beat,  little  heart  —  I  give  you  this  aud  this," 


Beautiful  city,  the  centre  and  crater  of  Eurc 

pean  confusion,  813. 
Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep,  412. 
Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden,  331. 
Birds'  love  and  birds'  song,  427. 
Blow  ye  tlie  trumpet,  gather  from  afar,  419. 
Break,  break,  break,  117. 
Brooks,  for  they  call'd  you  so  that  knew  you 

best,  028. 
Bury  the  Great  Duke,  348. 
But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ?  108. 
By  night  we  linger'd  on  tlie  lawn,  311. 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound,  290. 
Caress'd  or  chidden  by  the  dainty  hand,  118. 
Chains,  my  good  lord :  in  your  raised  brows  1 

read,  621. 
Check  every  outflash,  every  ruder  sally,  421. 
Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn,  8. 
Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing,  408. 
Cold  aud  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly 

meek,  326. 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,  330. 
Come  not  when  I  am  dead,  116. 
Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ,  353. 
Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet 

't  is  early  morn,  85. 
Contemplate  all  tliis  work  of  time,  318, 
Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here,  306. 
Could  I  outwear  my  present  state  of  woe,  411. 
Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour,  297. 
"  Courage !  "  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the 

land,  42. 
Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone  !  340. 

Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his  moods, 
429. 

Dainty  little  maiden,  whither  would  you  wan- 
der ?  634. 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  1  stand,  289. 

Dead  !  697. 

Dead,  long  dead,  341. 

Dead  Princess,  living  Power,  if  that  which 
lived,  576. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire,  321. 

Dear,  near  and  true — no  truer  Time  himself, 
397. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows,  103. 

Did  I  liear  it  half  in  a  doze,  329. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore,  306. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead,  299. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat,  319. 

Dos  n't  thou  'ear  my  'ferse's  legs,  as  they  canters 
awaay  ?  121. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been.  -302. 

Dust  are  our  frames ;  and  gilded  dust  our  pride. 
370. 


816 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable,  175. 

Ere  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love's  tomb,  410. 

Every  day  hath  its  night,  407. 

Byes  not  down-dropt  nor  over  bright,  but  fed,  6. 

Faint  as  a  climate-changing  bird  that  flies,  787. 
Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place,  394. 
Fair  sliip,  that  from  the  Italian  shore,  290. 
Fair  things  are  slow  to  fade  away,  7SG. 
Farewell,   Macready,   since  to-night  we  part, 

422. 
Farewell,  whose  like  on  earth  I  shall  not  find, 

814. 
Fifty  times  the  rose  has  flower'd  and  faded, 

785. 
First  drink  a  health,  this  solemn  night,  424. 
First  pledge  our  Queen  this  .solemn  night,  032. 
Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  tlie  sea,  113. 
Flower  in  tlie  crannied  wall,  124. 
From  art,  from  nature,  from  tlie  schools,  299. 
From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess  done, 

199. 
From  that   time   forth   I  would    not   see  her 

more,  591. 
Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow,  51. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 

123. 
Go  not,  happy  day,  333. 
God  bless  our  Priuce  and  Bride  !  704. 
Golden-hair'd   Ally   whose   name  is  one   with 

mine,  603. 
Gone !  gone  till  the  end  of  the  years,  426. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  354. 
Hallowed  be  Thy  name  —  Halleluiah  !  002. 
Hapless  doom  of  woman  happy  in  betrothing  ! 

527. 
He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands,  117. 
"  He  is  fled  —  I  wish  him  dead,"  800. 

595. 
He  flies  the  event :  he  leaves  the  event  to  me, 
He  past :  a  soul  of  nobler  tone,  301. 
He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope,  394. 
He  tasted  love  witli  half  his  uiind,  310. 
He  that  only  rules  by  terror,  118. 
He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts  of  oak, 

416. 
Heart-afiluence  in  discursive  talk,  31G. 
Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all   night   till 

morn,  410. 
Helen's  Tower,  here  I  stand,  099. 
Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid,  11.3. 
Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-uiglit,  335. 
Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer,  296. 
Her,  that  yer  Honor  was  spakin'  to  ?   Whin,  yer 

Honor  ?  last  year,  682. 
Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted  ;  I  to  the  East, 

343. 
Here  far  away,  seen  from  the  topmost  cliff,  579. 
Here,  it  is  here  — the  close  of  tlie  year,  425. 
Here  often,  wlien  a  child,  I  lay  reclined,  704. 
Hide  me,  Motlier  !  my  Fathers  l)elong\l  to  the 

church  of  old,  672. 
High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less,  317. 
His  eyes  in  eclipse,  406. 
Home  tliey  brought  her  warrior  dead,  273. 
Home  they  brought  him  slam  vvitli  spears,  119. 
How  fares  it  witli  the  liappy  dead  '!  298. 
How  long,  O  God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down, 

419. 
How  many  a  father  have  I  seen,  300. 
flow  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head,  311. 


am  any  man's  suitor,  403. 
built  my  soul  a  lordly  pleasure-house,  33, 
came  one  day  and  sat  among  the  stones,  594. 
cannot  love  tliee  as  I  ought,  300. 
cannot  see  the  features  right,  303. 
climb  the  hill :  from  end  to  end,  313. 
come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern,  344. 
dream'd  there  would  be  Spring  no  more,  303i 
envy  not  in  any  moods,  294. 
had  a  vision  when  the  night  was  late,  113. 
hate   the   dreadful   hollow  behind  the  little 
wood,  323. 

have  led  her  home, my  love,  my  only  friend, 333 
hear  the  noise  about  tliy  keel,  290. 
held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings,  2S8. 
knew  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor,  55. 
know  her  by  her  angry  air,  419. 
know  that  this  was  life  —  th?  track,  294. 
leave  thy  praises  unexpress'd,  305. 
past  beside  the  reverend  walls,  309. 
read,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade,  4S 
see  the  wealthy  miller  yet,  26. 
send  you  here  a  sort  of  allegory,  33. 
shall  not  see  thee.     Dare  I  say,  310. 
sing  to  him  tliat  rests  below,  293. 
sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin,  289. 
stood  on  a  towor  in  the  wet,  425 
stood  upon  the  Mountain  which  o'erlooks,  400. 
'  the  glooming  light,  406. 
thouglit  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I 
am,  41. 

trust  I  have  not  wasted  breath,  319. 
vex  my  heart  with  fancies  dim,  298. 
wage  not  any  feud  with  Death,  306. 
waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry,  91. 
was  tlie  cliief  of  the  race  —  he  had  stricken 
my  fatlier  dead,  625. 
was  walking  a  mile,  329. 
will  not  shut  me  from  my  kind,  315. 
wish  I  were  as  in  the  years  of  old,  C69. 
f  any  vague  desire  should  rise,  306. 
f  any  vision  .should  reveal,  310. 
f  I  were  loved  as  I  desire  to  be,  634. 
f,  in  thy  second  state  sublime,  301. 
f  one  should  bring  me  this  report,  292. 
f  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one,  298. 
f  these  brief  lays,  of  sorrow  born,  299. 
f  you  're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear,  40. 
llyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls,  109. 
'm  glad  I  walk'd.     How  fresh  the  meadows 
look,  70. 
n  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly.  111. 
n  the  stormy  east-wind  straining,  22. 
n  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell,  301. 
s  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time,  318. 
s  it  you,  that  preach'd    in  the  chapel  there 

looking  over  the  sand  ?  636. 
t  is  the  day  when  he  was  born,  315. 
t  is  the  miller's  daughter,  28. 
t  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,  83. 
t  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow,  1 10. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to  fill  the  gap, 

211. 
King,  that  hast  reign'd  six  hundred  years,  and 

grown,  631. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  37. 

Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums,  119. 

Late,  my  grandson  !  half  the  morning  have  J 

paced  these  sandy  tracts,  755. 
Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard,  129. 


I 


J 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


81T 


Life  and  Thought  have  gone  awaj',  16. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth,  428. 

Like  souLs  that  balance  joy  aud  pain,  112. 

Live  thy  Life,  814. 

Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs,  291. 

Long  have  I  sigh'd  for  a  calm  :  God  grant  I  may 
find  it  at  last !  325. 

Long  lines  of  cliti  breaking  have  left  a  chasm, 
355. 

Look  thro'  mine  eyes  with  thine.  True  wife, 
28. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Ijord  and  King,  320. 

Love  is  come  with  a  song  and  a  smile,  540. 

Love  tliat  hath  us  in  the  net,  28. 

Love  tliou  tliy  laud,  with  love  far-bronght,  54. 

Low-flowing  breezes  are  roaming  the  broad  val- 
ley dininicil  in  the  gloaming,  403. 

Lucilia,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found,  124. 

Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after 
many  a  vanisli'd  face,  702. 

Many,  many  welcomes,  814. 

Mark'd  how  tlie  war-axe  swang,  562. 

Maud  has  a  garden  of  roses,  332. 

Me  my  own  fate  to  lasting  sorrow  doometh,  421. 

Mellow  moon  of  heaven,  792. 

Miduiglit  —  in  no  juidsummer  tune,  699. 

Milk  for  my  sweet-arts,  Bess !  fur  it  mun  be 
the  time  about  now,  GS4. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit  fierce  and  free, 
415. 

Minnie  and  Winnie,  635. 

"  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me,"  306. 

Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale,  328. 

Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave,  117. 

My  father  left  a  part  to  me,  102. 

My  friend  should  meet  me  somewhere  here- 
about, 618. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men,  104. 

My  lieart  is  wasted  with  my  woe,  18. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  —  thou  wilt  be, 
20. 

My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a  broken  wing,  342. 

My  life  is  fuU  of  weary  days,  IIS. 

My  lords,  we  heard  you  speak  ;  you  told  us  all, 
423. 

My  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees,  312. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this,  290. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind,  418. 

Mystery  of  mysteries,  13. 

Naay,  noS  mander  o'  use  to  be  callin'  Mm  Roa, 

Roa,  Roa,  789. 
Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies,  119. 
Niglitingales  warbled  without,  407. 
Not  here  !  the  white  North  has  thy  bones  ;  and 

thou,  631. 
Not  this  way  will  you  set  your  name,  697. 
Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow,  318. 
Now  is  done  thy  long  day's  work,  17. 
Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut,  294. 

O  beauty,  passing  beauty  !  sweetest  Sweet !  416. 

O  blackbird  !  sing  me  something  well,  51. 

O  bridesmaid,  ere  the  happy  knot  was  tied,  634. 

O  darling  room,  my  heart's  delight,  420. 

O  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this,  318. 

O  go  not  yet,  my  love  !  408. 

O  God  !  my  God  !  have  mercy  now,  404. 

O  Lady  Flora,  let  me  speak,  98. 

O  let  the  solid  ground,  331. 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure,  321. 

O  Love,  Love,  Love  !     O  withering  night !  28. 


O  love,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine,  352. 

O  loyal  to  the  royal  in  thyself,  464. 

O  maiden,  fresher  than  the  first  green  leaf,  411. 

O  me,  my  present  rambles  by  the  lake,  72. 

O  mighty-mouth'd  inventor  of  harmonies,  398. 

O  Patriot  Statesman,  be  thou  wise  to  know,  700 

O  plump  head-waiter  at  The  Cock,  106. 

0  sad  No  More  !  O  sweet  Ao  More  1  420. 

O  sorrow,  cruel  fellowship,  288. 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me,  301. 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South,  259, 

O  sweet  pale  Margaret,  50. 

O  that  't  were  possible,  340. 

O  thou  so  fair  in  summers  gone,  700. 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm,  296. 

O  thou  that  sendest  out  the  man,  635. 

O  thou  whose  fringed  lids  I  gaze  upon,  411. 

O  true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long,  321. 

O,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then,  319. 

O  well  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  !  353. 

O  yet  we  trust  tliat  somehow  good,  300. 

O  you  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers,  399. 

O  you  that  were  eyes  and  light  to  the  Bang  till 

he  past  away,  631. 
O  yoimg  Mariner,  808. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close,  81. 
Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights,  53. 
Old  Fitz,  who  from  your  suburb  grange,  669. 
Old  poets  foster'd  under  friendlier  skies,  701. 
Old  warder  of  these  buried  bones,  297. 
Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones,  288. 
On  either  side  the  river  lie,  21. 
On  that  last  niglit  before  we  went,  314. 
Once  in  a  golden  hour,  394. 
Once  more  tlie  gate  behind  jiie  falls,  77. 
Once  more  tlie  Heavenly  Power,  038. 
"  One  height  and  one  far-shining  fire,"  072. 
One  writes,  that  "  Other  friends  remain,"  283. 
Our  birches  yellowing  and  from  each,  696. 
Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never  had 

seen  him  before,  616. 
'Ouse-keeper  sent  tha  my  lass,  fur  new  Squire 

coom'd  last  niglit,  614. 
Out  of  the  deep,  my  child,  out  of  the  deep,  601. 
Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes,  708. 

Peace ;  come  away  :  the  song  of  woe,  301. 
Pellam  the  King,  who  held  and  lost  with  Lot. 

687. 
Pine,  beech,  and  plane,  oak,   walnut,  apricot, 

639. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court,  and  sat, 

220. 

Rainbow,  stay,  735. 
Revered,  beloved  —  O  you  that  hold,  5. 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky,  315. 
Rise,   Britons,  rise,  if   manhood  be  not  dead, 

422. 
Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again,  304,  313. 
Riviilet  crossing  my  ground,  330. 
Roman  Virgil,  thou  that  siugest,  633. 
Rose,  on  this  terrace  fifty  years  ago,  813. 
Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione 

row !  635. 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun,  319. 

Sainted  Juliet !  dearest  name  !  406. 

Scorn'd,  to  be  sconi'd  by  one  that  I  scorn,  332. 

Sea-kings'  daughter  from  over  the  sea,  396. 

See  what  a  lovely  shell.  .339. 

Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of  Good,  411. 


818 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


Shame  upon  you,  Robin,  506. 

She  came  to  the  village  church,  329. 

Sick,  am  I  sicli  of  a  jealous  dread  ?  329. 

Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a  summer's  day,  238. 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance,  303. 

Slow  sail'd  the   weary  mariners  and  saw,  15, 

414. 
So  all  day  long  tlie  noise  of  battle  roU'd,  56. 
"  So  careful  of  the  type  ?  "  but  no,  300. 
So  dark  a  mind  within  me  dwells,  333. 
So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar'd  his  host,  309. 
So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay,  101. 
So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do,  305. 
So  saying,  light-foot  Iris  pass'd  away,  G30. 
"  Spring-tiovvers  !  "    While  you   still  delay   to 

take,  805. 
Still  on  tlie  cower  stood  the  vane,  348. 
Still  onward  winds  the  di-eary  way,  294. 
Strange,  that  I  felt  so  gay,  336. 
Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love,  288. 
Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming,  814. 
Sun  comes,  moon  comes,  428. 
Sunset  and  evening  star,  814. 
Sure  never  yet  was  Antelope,  421. 
Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air,  308. 
Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low,  251. 
Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town,  105. 
Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt,  302. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend,  305. 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 

25-7. 
Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees,  291. 
That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole,  299. 
That  story  which  ti»e  bold  Sir  Bedivere,  231. 
That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless,  320. 
The  baby  new  to  eartli  and  sky,  298. 
The  brave  Geraint,  a  knight  of  Arthur's  court, 

135. 
The  Ball,  the  Fleece  are  cramm'd,  and  not  a 

room,  (38. 
The  charge  of  tlie  gallant  three  hundred,  the 

Heavy  Brigade !  631. 
The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down,  317. 
The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave,  293. 
"  The  fault  was  mine,  ^he  fault  was  mine,"  338. 
The  frost  is  here,  427. 
The    groundliame    of    the    crocus  breaks    the 

mould,  806. 
The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent,  440. 
The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said,  293. 
The  lights  and  .^liadows  fly  !  426. 
The  lintwhite  and  the  tlirostlecock,  407. 
The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  soul  of 

a  man,  812. 
The  love  tliat  rose  on  stronger  wings,  320. 
Tlie  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the  rain  ! 

427. 
The  Nortli-wind  fall'n,  in  the  new-starrtSd  night, 

416. 
The  pallid  thunder-stricken  sigh  for  gain,  412. 
The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go,  203. 
The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare,  17. 
The  poet  in  a  golden  clime  was  born,  14. 
The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose,  117. 
The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove  for  power, 

466. 
The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls,  257. 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the  hills 

and  the  plains,  123. 
Xhe  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ,  295, 

314. 
The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven,  410. 


The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf,  99. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak,  467. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows,  52. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth,  414. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole,  300. 

The   woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  falL 

391. 
There  are  three  things  which  fill  my  heart  witll 

sighs,  703. 
There  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar,  425. 
Tliere  is  no  land  like  England,  413. 
There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls,  43. 
There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier,  29. 
Tliere  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree,  3l9. 
There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day,  21. 
Tlierefore  your  HaUs,  your  ancient   Colleges, 

703. 
These  lame  hexameters  the  strong-wing'd  music 

of  Homer,  635. 
These  to   His  Memory  —  since   he  held  them 

dear,  128. 
They  have  left  the  doors  ajar ;   and  by  their 

clash,  609. 
They  rose  to  where  their  sovran  eagle  sails,  628- 
This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate,  333. 
This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day,  62. 
This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall,  307. 
Tlio'  if  an  eye  that  's  downward  cast,  302. 
Tlio'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join,  296. 
Those  that  of  late  had  fleeted  far  and  fast,  627. 
Thou  art  not  steep'd  in  golden  languors,  8. 
Thou  comest,  much  wept  for  :  such  a  breeze, 

292. 
Thou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying  love,  412. 
Thou   third   great   Canning,  stand   among  our 

best,  700. 
Thou  who  stealest  fire,  11. 
Though  Night  hath  climbed  her  peak  of  highest 

noon,  411. 
Tliy  converse  drew  us  with  delight,  317. 
Thy  dark  eyes  open'd  not,  24. 
Tliy  prayer  was  "  Light  —  more  Light  —  while 

Time  shaU  last  !  "  700. 
Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss,  298. 
Thy  tu whits  are  luU'd,  I  wot,  9. 
Tliy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums,  265. 
Tliy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air,  321. 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise,  317. 
'T  is  well :  't  is  something  ;  we  may  stand-  293- 
To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise,  292. 
To-night,  ungather'd,  let  us  leave,  314. 
To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away,  289. 
Two  bees  within  a  crystal  flowerbell  rocked, 

413. 
Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages,  19. 
Two  little  hands  that  meet,  428. 
Two  Suns  of  Love  make  day  of  human  life,  701, 
Two  young  lovers  in  winter  weather,  556. 

Ulysses,  much-experienced  man,  804. 
Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway,  313. 
Uplift  a  thousand  voices  full  and  sweet,  396. 
Urania  speaks  with  darken'd  brow,  297. 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet's  mind,  15. 
Victor  in  Drama,  Victor  in  Romance,  628. 
Vine,  vine  and  eglantine,  426. 
Voice  of  the  summer  wind,  409. 

Waait  tiU  our  Sally  cooms  in,  fur  thou  mun  a. 

sights  to  tell,  607. 
Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land 

and  sea,  605. 


INDEX   OF    FIRST   LINES. 


819 


**  Wait  a  little,"  you  say,  "  you  are  sure  it  'U  all 
come  right,"  603. 

Warrior  of  (iod,  man's  friend,  not  laid  below, 
700. 

Warrior  of  God,  wliose  strong  right  arm  de- 
based, 634. 

We  knew  him,  out  of  Sliakespeare's  art,  4'Jl. 

Wa  leave  tlie  well-beloved  place,  313. 

We  left  beliind  the  painted  buoy,  3'J2. 

We  move,  the  wheel  must  always  move,  813. 

We  ranging  down  this  lower  track,  298. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race,  32. 

Welcome,  welcome  with  one  voice  !  704. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which  Leonard 
wrot",  82. 

What  be  tlie  crown'd  forms  high  over  the  sa- 
cred fountain  ?  812. 

What  did  ye  do,  and  what  did  ye  saiiy,  771. 

What  does  little  birdie  say,  386. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme,  305. 

What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  tlie  fields  he 
knew,  813. 

What  time  I  wasted  youthful  hours,  422. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering 
light,  18. 

What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me  ? 
292. 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung,  320. 

Wlieer  'asta  beiin  saw  long  and  meii  liggiu'  'ere 
aloan  ?  390. 

When  cats  run  home  and  liglit  is  come,  9. 

When  I  contemplate  all  alone,  307. 

When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head,  303. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave,  295. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls,  303. 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch,  310. 

When  the  breeze  of  a  joyful  dawn  blew  free,  9. 

When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing,  407. 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth,  5. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet,  427. 

Where  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which  stood, 
420. 


While  about  the  shores  of  Mona  those  Neronian 

legionaries,  397. 
While  man  and  woman  stiU  are  incomplete,  813. 
Wliither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  ? 

Fly  no  more,  414. 
Whither,  O  wfiitlier,  love,  shall  we  go,  394. 
Who  can  say,  418. 

Who  fears  to  die  ?  who  fears  to  die  ?  413. 
Who  loves  not  Knowledge  V  Who  shall  rail,  317 
Who  would  be,  19,  20. 
Why  wail  you,  pretty  plover?  and  what  is  tha 

you  fear  V  801. 
Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet,  309. 
Winds  are  loud  and  you  aie  dumb,  428. 
Witch-elms  that  counterchauge  the  floor,  309. 
With  a  half  glance  upon  the  sky,  14. 
With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots,  6. 
With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode,  6C. 
With  one  black  sliadow  at  its  feet,  23. 
With  roses  musky-breathed,  420. 
With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve,  295. 
With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave,  295. 
With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on,  297. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet,  99. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust,  296. 

Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven,  302. 

You  ask  me,  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease,  53. 

You  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which  once  was 
nune,  410. 

You  did  late  review  my  lays,  420. 

You  leave  us  :  you  will  see  the  Rhine,  312. 

You  make  our  faults  too  gross,  and  thence  main- 
tain, 813. 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet's  name,  109. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear,  38. 

You  say,  but  witli  no  touch  of  scorn,  312. 

You  shake  your  head.     A  random  string,  IQi. 

You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased,  302. 

You,  you,  if  you  shall  fail  to  understand,  76L 

Your  ringlets,  your  ri^jglets,  395. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES. 


(The  titles  iu  citpital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of  the  work  ;  those  in  lower  case  art 
single  poems,  or  the  subdivisions  of  long  poems.] 


PAGE 

Achilles  over  the  Trench    ....  630 
ADDITIONAL  POEMS         .        .        .        .400 

Additional  Verses 704 

Adeline  ........  13 

.\lexander  .......  63-1 

All  Things  will  die 408 

Amphion 102 

.\nacreontics           ......  420 

,\ncient  Sage,  The 675 

Answer,  The 428 

Arrival,  The 100 

At  the  Window       .....  426 

Audley  Court 68 

Ayl 428 

Aylmer's  Field 370 

Balin  and  Balau 687 

Ballad  of  Oriaua 18 

BALLABS  AND  OTHER  I'OEMS    .         .  603 

Battle  of  Brunauburh 629 

Beautiful  City 813 

BECKET 705 

Beggar  Maid,  The 113 

Blackbird,  The 51 

Boadicea 397 

Bonaparte 416 

"  Break,  break,  break  "     ....  117 

Bridesmaid,  The    • 634 

Britons,  guard  your  own   ....  422 

Brook,  The  :  An  Idyll 343 

Burial  of  Love,  The   .                  ...  406 

By  an  Evolutionist 812 

Captain,  The:  A  Legend  of  the  Navy           .  118 

Carmen  Saeculare        .....  785 

Character,  A  .        .        .        .        .        .        .14 

Charge  of  the  Heavy  Brigade  at  Balaclava, 

The 631 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  The     .        .  354 

CHILD-SONGS 634 

Choric  Song 43 

Chorus 410 

Circumstance 19 

City  Child,  The 634 

Claribel :  A  Melody    .....  5 

Columbus 621 

"  Come  not  when  I  am  dead  ■■  .         .         .  116 

Coming  of  Arthur,  The         ....  129 

Conclusion 41 

Crossing  the  Bar 814 

CUP,  THE 639 

Daisy,  The 352 

DAY-DREAM,  THE 98 

Dead  Prophet,  The 697 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  The  .        .  .51 


Dedication  ...... 

Dedication  to  Ballads  and  other  Poem.^ 

Dedication  to  the  Defence  of  Lucknoiv 

Dedication  to  the  Idylls  of  the  King    . 

Defence  of  Lucknow,  The 

DEMETER  AND  OTHER  POEMS       . 

Demeter  and  Persephone 

Departure,  The 

DE  PROKUNDIS 

Deserted  House,  The 

Despair 

Dirge,  A  .         .         . 

Dora    .... 

Dream  of  Fair  Women,  A 
Dualisms     . 
Dying  Swan,  The  . 


Eagle,  The  :  A  Fragment      .... 

EARLY  SONNETS     

Early  Spring 

Edward  Gray 

Edwin  Morris  ;  or.  The  Lake 

Eleanore     ....... 

Elegiacs 

England  and  America  in  1782   . 

ENGLISH  IDYLLS,  AND  OTHER   POEMS. 

1842 

English  War  Song 

ENOCH  ARDEN,  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Enoch  Arden 

Epic,  The 

Epilogue 

Epilogue  to  the  Day  Dream 

Epitaph  on  Caxton 

Epitaph  on  General  Gordon 

Epitaph  on  Lord  Stratford  de  RedclitTe 

EXPERIMENTS         

Experiments  iu  Quantity   .... 


603 

576 

128 

576 

7S5 

787 

100 

601 

16 

636 

17 

66 

45 

413 

17 

117 
634 
C38 
105 
72 
24 
403 
635 

50 
413 
355 
355 

56 
697 

98 
700 
700 
700 
897 
393 


FALCON,  THE 657 

Farewell,  A 113 

Far  — Ear— Away 813 

Fatima        ....                 .        .  28 

First  Quarrel,  The 603 

Fleet,  The 761 

Flight,  The 679 

'•  Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall  •'                .  124 

Flower,  The 394 

Forlorn 800 

Fragment,  A 420 

"  Frater  Ave  atque  Yale  "...  635 

Freedom 700 

FUGITIVE  POEMS 420 

Gardener's  Daughter,  The  :  or.  The  Pictures  62 

Gareth  and  Lynette 44(1 


822 


INDEX   OF   TITLES. 


Geraint  and  Enid 
Godiva    . 

Golden  Supper,  The 
Golden  Year,  The  . 
Gone  . 
Goose,  The 
Grandmother,  The 
Grasshopper,  The  . 
Guinevere  . 


Hands  all  round    . 

Happv 

HAROLD 

Helen's  Tower    . 

Hero  to  Leaniler     . 

Hesperides,  The 

Higher  Pantheism,  The 

Holy  Grail,  The 

"  How  "  and  the  "  Why,"  The 

Human  Cry,  The 


Ward 


IDYLLS  OF  THE  KIN'>i     . 

If  T  were  Loved 

IN  MEMORIAM    . 

In  Memoriam  —  William  George 

In  the  Children-s  Hospital    . 

Tn  the  Garden  at  Swaiustou 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz 

In  Quantity.  Milton  ..... 

Isabel     ....... 

Islet,  The 

"I  stood  on  a  tower  in  the  wet   '   (1865 
1866)    


135 
.   91 

595 
.   82 

420 
.   55 

387 
.  409 

220 

24,  632 
801 
535 
699 
408 
416 
123 
109 
403 
602 

128 

eu 

288 
814 
016 
467 
393 


Merlin  and  Vivien 

Mermaid,  The     .... 

Merman,  The 

Miller's  Daughter,  The 

Minnie  and  \Vinuie 

MISCELLANEOUS.     Published 

MISCELLANEOUS 

Montenegro         .         .        .        . 

Moral      ..... 

Moi'te  d'Arthur 

"  Move  eastward,  happy  earth  " 

"  My  life  is  full  of  weary  days  "' 

Mystic,  The    .... 


Q1869 


National  Song     .... 
New  Timon  and  the  Poets,  The 
New  Year's  Eve 
No  Answer     .... 
No  More      .        .  .         . 

Northern  Cobbler,  The  . 
Northern  Farmer  (New  Style)  . 
Northern  Farmer  (Old  Style) 
Nothing  will  die 


Kate    . 
Kraken,  The 


Lady  Clara  "Vere  de  Vere   .... 

Lady  Clare 

Lady  of  Shalott,  The         .... 

Lancelot  and  Elaine 

La.st  Tournament,  The        .... 

L'Envoi 

Letter,  The 

Letters,  The 

Lilian  ....... 

Lines      

Literary  Squabbles    ..... 

Locksley  Hall 

Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  The  .         .        .        .        . 

Lost  Hope 

Lotos-Eaters 

Love 

Love  and  Death 

Love  and  Duty    ...... 

Love  and  Sorrow 

Love,  Pride,  and  Forgetfulness 

"  Love  thou  thv  land  with  love  far-brought 

Lover'.'^  Tale,  The 

Lucretius 


304 

426 

419 
412 

87 
110 

21 
175 

429 
101 
427 
348 
5 
704 
395 

85 
755 
111 
410 

42 
412 

18 

81 
411 
410 
'  64 
579 
124 


413 
421 
40 
427,  428 
420 
607 
121 
390 
407 


ellington 
Interna- 


Madeline     . 8 

Margaret         ...  ...      50 

Mariana      . 6 

Mariana  in  the  Sciith 23 

Marriage  Jlorning       .....        428 
MAUD,  AND  OTHER  POEMS    .        .         .    323 

Maud .323 

May  Queen,  The .38 

Merliu  and  the  Gleam  ...        808 


Oak,  The 

0  Darling  Fioom 

Ode  to  Memory      . 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  W 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the 

tional  Exhibition    . 
Ode  written  tor  the  Opening  of  the  Colonial 

and  Indian  Exhibition 

CEnoue 

"  Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights" 
Oi  piovTis    ...... 

Old  Foets  foster'd  under  friendlier  skies 
On  a  Mourner    ..... 

On  a  Spiteful  Letter      .... 

On  Cambridge  University 

On  oue  who  affected  an  Effeminate  Manner 

On  the  Hill 

On  the  Jubilee  of  Queen  Victoria 
On  Translations  of  Homer 
"  One  height  and  one  far-shining  fire 
Owd  Roa 


Palace  of  Art,  The         .... 
Parnassus        ...  .        . 

Passing  of  Arthur,  The 
Pelleas  and  Ettarre    .... 

Play,  The 

POEMS.     Published  in  1830      . 

POEMS.     Published  in  18-30  and  omitted  in 

later  editions 

POEMS.     Published  in  1832 

Poet,  The 

Poet's  Mind,  The 

Poet's  Song,  The 

Politics 

Prefatory  Poem  to  my  Brother's  Sounet.s 
Prefatory  Sonnet  to  the  "Nineteenth  Cen 

tury  '■  . 

PRINCESS,  THE.     A  MEDLEY  . 

Progress  of  Spring,  The     .... 

Prologue  to  General  Hamley 

Prologue  to  the  Day  Dream 

Promise  of  May,  The     .... 


162 

20 
19 
23 
635 
121 
635 
628 
101 
56 
117 
118 
409 


814 

420 

11 

348 

396 

704 
29 
63 
415 
701 
119 
425 
703 
813 
426 
785 
635 
672 
789 

33 
812 
231 
211 
813 
5 

403 

21 

14 

15 

117 

813 

699 

627 
238 
806 
696 
98 
762 


QUEEN  MARY 408 

Recollectionii  of  the  Arabian  Nights  .        9 


INDEX   OF   TITLES. 


823 


Requiescat 

Revenge,  The 

Revival,  The 

Ring,  The 

Ringlet,  The 

Rizpah    .... 

Komney's  Remorse     . 

Rosalind 

Roses  on  the  Terrace,  The 

Pallor  Boy,  The     . 

Sea-Dreams 

Sea-Fairies,  The     . 

Sea-Fairies,  The:  Original  Form 

Second  Song  to  the  Owl 

Show-Day  at  Battle  Abbey,  1876 

Sir  Galahad 

Sir  John  Franklin      ... 

Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Lord  Cobham 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 

Sisters,  The    . 

Sisters,  The 

Skipping  Rope,  The 

Sleeping  Beauty 

Sleeping  Palace,  The     . 

Snowdrop,  The  . 

Songs     .... 

Song:  The  Owl  . 

Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K. 

SONNETS  . 

Sonnets  .        411,412,415 

Specimen  of  Translation  of  the  Iliad 

Spinster's  Sweet- Arts,  The 

Spring 

Stanzas  (Keepsake) 

."t.  Agnes'  Eve    . 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 

Supposed  Confessions 


13,  119 


416,  419, 


Talking  Oak,  The .77 

Tears  of  Heaven,  The  ....  410 
Third  of  February,  1852,  The  .  .  .423 
Three  Sonnets  to  a  Coquette     .        .        .        118 

Throstle,  The 814 

Timbuctoo 400 

TIRESIAS,  AND  OTHER  POEMS      .        .     669 

Tiresias 669 

Tithonus 391 

To 8,33,406,415 

To ,  after  reading  a  Life  and  Letters  109 

To  a  Lady  Sleeping 411 

To  Alfred  Tennyson,  my  Grandson  (Dedica- 
tion to  Ballads  and  other  Poems)  .        .     603 
To  Christopher  North        ....        420 


406, 


421, 


407 


422 


394 
573 

100 
792 
395 
605 
809 
418 
813 

394' 
382 

15 
414 
9 
535 
104 
631 
613 
112 

32 
609 
421 

99 

99 

814 

,418 

9 

20 
627 
,  703 
399 
684 
427 
422 
103 

74 
404 


!  To  Daatc 

To  E.  Fitzgerald  ... 

To  E.  L.  (on  his  Travels  in  Greece) 
To  H.  R.  II.  Princess  Beatrice  . 

To  J.  S 

To  Mary  Boyle 

To  one  who  ran  down  the  English 

To  Professor  Jebb      .... 

To  the  Duke  of  Argyll  . 

To  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin  and  Ava 

To  the  "Nineteenth  Century  ''  (Prefatory 

Sonnet) 

To  the  Princess  Alice  (Dedication  to  the 

Defence  of  Lucknow) 
To  the  Princess  Frederika  of  Hanover  on 

Marriage 

To  the  Queen 

To  the  Queen  (Epilogue  to  the  Idylls) 
To  the  Rev.  W.  F.  Brcokfield 
To  the  Rev.  F.   D.  Maurice 

To  Ulysses 

To  Victor  Hugo 

To  Virgil 

To-Mon-ow 

TRANSLATIONS,  ETC. 

Two  Greetings 

Two  Voices,  The 


631 

669 
109 

701 
52 
805 
813 
786 
700 
785 

627 

576 

631 
5 
464 
628 
353 
804 
628 
633 
682 
629 
601 
92 


Ulysses 83 

Vastness 702 

Victim,  The 122 

Village  Wife,  The:  or,  The  Entail       .        .  614 

Vision  of  Sin,  The 113 

Voice  and  the  Peak,  The       .         .         .        .467 

Voyage  of  Maeldune          ....  625 

Voyage,  The 892 

Wages 123 

Walking  to  the  Mail      .        .        .        .        .70 

War,  The 426 

We  are  Free  .......  414 

Welcome  to  Alexandra,  A           ...  396 
Welcome  to  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Edin- 
burgh, A 466 

When? 428 

Will 353 

Will  Waterproof's  Lvrical  Monologue          .  106 

Window,  The     .       " 426 

Winter 427 

Wreck,  The 672 

"  You  ask  me  why,  tho'  ill  at  ease  "    .        .58 


OVPi  ;t  Mv/r 


r? 


M 


